A Tale of Wolves and Roses
by littlestcrescentwolf
Summary: Rose Stark has spent her childhood in Winterfell. Now, with her sister betrothed and her father named Hand of the King, she leaves for the capital of the Seven Kingdoms and discovers a world she'd rather not live in. DISCLAIMER: contains explicit language and scenes of a violent/sexual nature. PAIRING: various, including Theon/OC. [update for season 8 delayed]
1. Winter Is Coming

**Winter Is Coming**

"Never forget what you are, the rest of the world will not. Wear it like armor and it can never be used to hurt you."

* * *

The keep fills with the warmth from the fire, dampening Rose's brow. The heat from hot springs is ripe this morning, roasting Winterfell in the dreary weather. She sits, her sisters on either side, concentrating as best she can on her sewing. Septa Mordane shifts between the girls, finally settling in front of Sansa's perfect handiwork.

"Fine work as always," she coos. "Well done."

Sansa beams, proudly. "Thank you."

"I love the detail that you've managed to get in these corners. Quite beautiful! The stitching . . ."

Rose supresses the urge to roll her eyes. From outside, the sound of her jeering brothers creep in through the windows, followed by arrows flying out of their bows.

"Ouch!"

Beside her, Arya manages to prick herself with the needle. She huffs, throws her work down on the bench and pouts.

Rose grins. "I always found needlework a tedious task as well," she whispers. "Come on." She sets her sewing down next to Arya's, then takes her hand and leads her out of the boiling keep. Septa is far too preoccupied praising Sansa to notice.

The cold air is like a refreshing gush of water pouring over her. Lifting her skirt above her ankles, she drags her sister into the courtyard, where their brothers are practising. Bran fires arrow after arrow into the target, each one missing terribly.

Arya looks up at her with a mischievous glint in her eyes. Rose frowns, questioningly. Without saying a word, Arya grabs the nearest bow, draws back an arrow and fires from where they stand. Sharply, it strikes the centre of the target.

The boys spin around, startled. Arya looks pleasantly surprised with herself, and lowers into a graceless curtsey. Bran drops his bow on the ground and sprints towards them, a mildly furious look on his face.

"Quick, Bran, faster!" Jon chuckles.

Rose watches as he chases their sister across the courtyard, leaving the rest of them in fits of laughter.

* * *

Rose lies, naked, on her back, watching him begin to undress.

"For someone who witnessed a man's execution today, you're in a good mood," she notes.

Theon shrugs. "He was a deserter. Your father was only doing his duty."

He grabs each of her thighs and yanks her down the bed, making her squeal. Then, he buries his face between her legs, his tongue exploring. Rose writhes, her back arching against the mattress, a hungry whimper parting her lips.

"He could have been sent back to the Night's Watch," she murmurs between gasps. "It seems like a wasted soldier, to me."

A new wave of pleasure is cut short when he lifts his head, looking down at her with exasperation. "That's because you're a girl," he says. "You don't understand these things."

Rose scowls. "I'm a Stark. I understand plenty. You, on the other hand, are still just a hostage."

Something dark flashes in Theon's eyes. Without warning, he pushes himself inside of her, making her cry out, grabbing both of her wrists and pinning them over her head. He begins to take her with deep, hard strokes, watching with smugness as she struggles to contain her wails of euphoria.

"A hostage fucking his captor's daughter," he growls in her ear. He bites it, lightly. "So, who really has the upper hand?"

In the midst of pleasure, Rose feels the sting of his words.

"I wish you'd be kinder about it, sometimes," she whispers.

Theon slows his pace. He looks down on Rose's pretty face with something resembling regret. Those beautiful, snow blue eyes peer back at him, half-curious, half-sad. Leaning down, he kisses her between the brows, the tip of her slender nose, down to her soft lips. He draws back, and brushes the hair out of her face.

"You are the best thing about Winterfell, My Lady," he says.

Rose feels her heart soaring. Using all her strength, she turns him over onto his back, him still buried inside her. Mounting him with confidence, she begins to ride him. Theon's gentle hand snakes up her body, kneading her soft, small breast in his hand. Her lips part again, soft moans escaping her as he reaches, deep into her.

* * *

On the outskirts of Winterfell, a procession of gold and red comes marching down the road. The number must be closer to a hundred. Lannister and Baratheon horses arrive, in neat formation, through the gates of Winterfell.

One of the first faces is Joffrey Baratheon, with his golden hair and flowing red cloak. His focus instantly flickers between Rose and Sansa, before settling on the latter with a curious smile. Out of the corner of her eye, Rose can see Robb eyeing the prince, warily.

Behind Joffrey rides a large knight, with armour darker than the rest, and a helmet in the shape of a snarling dog. When he opens it, the sullen, scarred face of the Hound drinks in the congregation of Starks, stirring horrified whispers.

Rose hardly notices him. She's drawn to the enormous, scarlet carriage being tugged in through the gates by a swarm of horses. Following it, a stout man, far too stout to be riding a horse, with a bushy, black beard emerges, escorted by a series of knights in golden armour. The King.

Winterfell lowers to its knees, every head in sight bowing.

As he approaches Ned and greets him like old friends, from the ornate carriage emerges a line of beautifully dressed ladies, their pink silks and elaborate hairstyles strange against the Winterfell backdrop. Queen Cersei, with hair as golden as the sun, steps out with an unreadable expression on her face. And then her two children, Tommen and the smallest, Myrcella.

"Where's the Imp?" Arya asks, a little too loudly.

Sansa glowers. "Would you shut up?"

The King turns to the lining of Stark children.

"Who have we here? You must be Robb." He shakes his hand, and no other words are exchanged between them.

He stops in front of Rose, with a smile. "Lovely Rose, how you've grown."

And to Sansa, "Aye, you're a pretty one."

He looks down. "And your name is?"

"Arya."

Robert says nothing, instead turning to Bran. "Show us your muscles." Bran grins, flexing his skinny arm. Robert chuckles. "You'll be a soldier."

Queen Cersei approaches them, forcing a smile as Ned kisses her hand and Catelyn lowers into a curtsey. Soon enough, Robert heads for the crypt, with Ned following after him.

* * *

The Winterfell banquet roars late into the night, full of drunken camaraderie, kissing, upbeat music and dancing. Sansa spends most of the evening clinging to Rose's side, but her eyes are on Joffrey more than anything else.

"He's so handsome," she whispers, over and over.

Rose smiles, putting an arm around her. "You see the way he looks at you? Like you're the most beautiful girl in the North."

Sansa blushes, happily. "You will come with me, won't you? To King's Landing."

"If father will let me," Rose insists. "I'm by your side, always."

They sit and talk, discussing the prince for a while longer, before Sansa is sent to have audience with the Queen. Rose watches them smile and chatter together, swigging back another cup of wine. She is only ever allowed to drink on special occasions, but she has a feeling any more will send her vomiting through the night.

Using the table to support her, she staggers to the other side, where Robb is sat, brooding to himself. "You look troubled, brother," she says once she's plopped down.

"And _you_ look drunk." He tries to sound stern, but he can't keep the amusement out of his voice.

Rose snorts, unattractively. "I have had three cups. That is all."

Robb glances to where Sansa is talking with their mother and the Queen. "Do you think it's a good idea? Sending her off to marry the prince."

"She won't be going alone. Father and I will be there to look out for her."

"And Joffrey? He doesn't seem like—"

"—a right royal prick, as you so poetically put it?"

Robb quirks a brow, surprised by her foul language.

Rose senses his concern, and puts a hand over his. "I know that you worry about us girls, but we can't be locked up in Winterfell forever. Soon enough, we'll all have to marry nobles and have heirs of our own. Sansa's heirs will be little princes and princesses. Doesn't that sound like a good thing?"

Robb considers this. Rose looks over to where Joffrey is sat, his gaze still fixed on Sansa. When he glances their way, Rose immediately turns her head, flushing.

Across the table, Arya is catapulting the food from her bowl across the table. After several attempts, it manages to splash Sansa, right in the face. "Arya!" she screeches.

Robb's expression softens into laughter, and Rose feels a gushing sense of relief. Or, perhaps, that is simply the wine taking a stronger effect.


	2. The Kingsroad

**A/N** : long chapter ahead! contains strong sexual content, elements of a sub/dom sexual encounter, and mild reference to assault.

* * *

 **The Kingsroad**

"A mind needs books like a sword needs a whetstone."

* * *

As the sun begins to rise over Winterfell, Rose takes to the Godswood with Theon by her side, picking fresh flowers and putting them in her basket. Sansa likes to weave them in her hair after they've bloomed.

They walk in silence for a long while, her new direwolf, Hope, at her heels.

Theon tilts his head, looking at her. "What's wrong?"

"Father's going to make us go to King's Landing," Rose says, quietly. "King Robert wants Sansa to marry the prince and unite our houses. Which means we'll have to leave Winterfell."

Theon sighs. For a while, Rose thinks he won't respond. Then, he says, "You should go wherever your father tells you. I'll still be here when you get back."

" _If_ I get back." Rose stops in her tracks, turning to face him. "The capital's a dangerous place. The Baratheons are dangerous people."

"Ned will protect you. If he thinks things will be too risky for you and your sisters, he'll send you back to Winterfell."

"And then what?" A wry smile crosses her lips. "I have no intention of marrying you."

He chuckles. "I'm certain your brothers have no intention of letting me."

Rose scans their surroundings. They've made it to the most secluded part of the woods, deep within the trees and shrubbery. Her direwolf is waiting next to the creek, lapping up the water there. And Theon's standing in front of her, wearing the Stark sigil, dressed handsomely in warm furs. Succumbing to her impulses, she walks over to a large tree stump, which is covered in moss and growth, and sets her basket down. Then, she drops her cloak onto the ground.

Theon watches her, curiously. "This could be a good thing. You'll go to King's Landing, meet some handsome knight, and forget all about the lustful Theon Greyjoy and his massive cock."

She laughs. "I doubt any knight would want me now, with my innocence tarnished." Turning back to him, she bites down on her bottom lip. "I don't want to go back right away."

He rolls his eye. "They'll notice if we're both gone too long."

Rose unlaces her dress and lets it fall to the ground, the fabric puddling at her feet. The cold air feels like nothing against her naked body, which is full of warmth, starting at her bottom of her belly and spreading throughout.

Then, she climbs onto the tree stump, balancing herself on all fours, her face pressed down against the wood. Looking over her shoulder at him, she can see he's gripped his groin in one hand. Coyly, she spreads her legs and arches her back.

Peering around to make sure no one is watching, he approaches her from behind and admires her closely. "Alright, but we have to be quick," he insists.

She waits patiently, but Theon takes his time. He plants soft kisses down her flesh, stopping at her thighs, then buries his face between her cheeks. Rose lets out a shriek of pleasure, gripping onto the edge of the stump. A sharp, hard smack to her arse makes her whimper.

"Keep it down," Theon warns, rubbing the spot he slapped.

She apologises under her breath as he buries himself into her. Another lustful moan earns her three harder slaps, one after the other, alternating cheeks, and tears spring to her eyes. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she gasps.

Theon pauses. He gently massages her, the coldness of his hand soothing her burning flesh. She exhales in relief. He leans down and kisses her spine, his other hand grabbing her hip, pulling her against him as he sinks into her, over and over again. When it's clear she has no intention of being quiet, he places a hand over her mouth, the muffled sound of her wailing and skin slapping against skin echoing in the woods.

* * *

When they make their way back to the courtyard, Winterfell seems to have fallen into a deathly hush. Walking through the gates, past the guards, everything comes flooding back to Rose.

She squeezes Theon's hand, who smiles, encouragingly at her.

"I'll come and find you soon," he promises.

Rose nods, then picks up her skirts and heads inside.

She finds her mother sat at Bran's bedside, clutching his hand. He is as still as a statue, the sheets tucked around him, his hair combed, neatly on his head.

"How is he?" she asks, setting her basket down.

Catelyn doesn't look up. "No changes yet, love."

Rose sits on the bed behind her, wrapping her arms around her shoulders, snuggling into the crook of her neck. "You should eat something," she murmurs. "I'll sit with him for a while."

"That's alright." Catelyn places her hand on Rose's cheek. "I'm quite happy here."

Rose closes her eyes, enjoying the quiet for a moment.

"I'll stay, if you need me," she says. "I won't go with father."

"There's nothing you can do here, my sweet. Sansa needs you by her side, in King's Landing." Catelyn forces a smile. "Just think of it as a new adventure, like the ones in your storybooks."

Rose sighs, but doesn't have the heart to tell her mother she's no longer a child.

* * *

She reclines in her chambers, lying on her stomach, reading. A gentle rap at her door startles her. "Come in," she says. The door swings open to reveal Jon, in his leather and fur, a smile on his face.

Rose takes one look at him and bursts into tears.

"Oh, don't do all that," Jon groans.

She tosses her book aside and buries her face in her hands. "I'm sorry," she gasps, between sobs. "I don't know why."

Jon chuckles and plonks down on the bed. "Come here, silly girl."

Rose pushes herself up into a sitting position and throws herself into his arms. Jon catches her with a grunt, then laughs again and rocks her back and forth. He waits until she's stopped sobbing and her breathing evens out. Then, he holds her at arms-length and wipes away her stray tears with the pad of his thumb.

"This isn't goodbye."

Rose wipes her face on the back of her sleeve. "Today feels like a long string of goodbyes. This one might be the hardest."

Jon kisses her forehead. "Look after your sisters. Be good."

"Don't get stabbed."

He gives her one last hug, then gets up and leaves the room. Rose lies back on her stomach, staring at the closed door, sending every thought and prayer after him.

* * *

True to his promise, Theon finds her later that morning.

Rose dismisses Septa Mordane, insisting she wants to be alone to pack her things for travel, but hardly gets any done with Theon mounting her at every possible second. She didn't know it was possible to make love to someone so much in a day, and still want more.

"I'll miss your toes," he says, nibbling on them. Rose squeals, squirming on her mattress. His lips trail up her body. "And your long legs. And your round little arse. And this," he kisses her, right at her entrance. "I'll miss the most."

He pushes inside of her for the thousandth time. She bites down on her lip to suppress a moan, but barely manages it. Her legs wrap around his waist as he continues to ride her, slowly, his lips closing around her hardened nipple.

When his painfully slow pace begins to irritate her, Rose rolls over, climbing on top of him, moving her hips at a faster rate. "I liked what we did in the woods today," she says, shyly, between thrusts. Her hand strokes the length of his chest. "With you taking me from behind, striking me when I cried out."

Theon laughs. "I should have been rough with you more often."

He grabs her golden braid and gives it a small yank, pulling her head back. Then he sits up, his breath tickling her neck, his second hand reaching around to grope her backside. "When I close my eyes, I'll picture you bending over that tree stump for me," he whispers. Their hips move faster together, his balls slapping against her flesh as she moves up and down. "I'll picture pounding my cock inside of you, listening to you scream, begging for more."

His words send Rose over the edge. She bites down on his shoulder as she reaches ecstasy, but his hardness inside of her indicates he isn't quite finished with her yet.

"There won't be men like you in King's Landing," she pants.

Theon sucks on her nipple, his tongue circling, sending new waves of pleasure through her. "You're not leaving for three more hours."

"I still haven't finished packing," she giggles, giddily.

He removes his mouth from her breast and she huffs in protest. But his eyes light up as he looks at her. "Speaking of, I have something for you."

Rose frowns. Theon lifts her, so she is no longer mounting him, but simply perched on his lap, then stretches a hand over to her bedside table, grabbing something from his helm. He puts it in her hands. It's a head band, similar to the one she saw Cersei wearing at the banquet. But when she pulls on the end of it, she draws out a curved, pointed blade. "A dagger?" she gasps.

Theon wraps his arms around her. "You were right. King's Landing is a dangerous place, filled with dangerous men. Some of whom will be looking for pretty young girls to get their grubby hands on." Rose drops her gaze, but he tilts her chin back up, so she's looking him in the eye. "Anyone, and I mean _anyone_ , lays a finger on you, you stick them with this and make them bleed. Do you understand?"

"I understand." Her voice is barely a whisper.

Theon drops his hand and gives her a smile. Rose laces her arms around his shoulders and pecks him on the lips, a new heat rising inside of her. She puts the dagger on the side of her bed. Theon chuckles, running his hands up and down her back. "I'm surprised I haven't tired you out yet."

Rose grins. "I have more stamina than your whores. Besides, this might be the last day we spend with one another, like this." She leans closer, biting his bottom lip. "Then, perhaps, I'll be bending over a tree stump for someone else."

A mixture of anger and excitement crosses Theon's face. He claims her mouth with his, kissing her harshly. He pushes her back against the bed, looming over her so it's almost intimidating, then flips her onto her stomach.

Compliantly, she spreads her legs, and he buries back inside of her, his body writhing against hers, his hands grabbing her wrists and pinning them on either side of her head, his lips kissing hungrily at her neck. Rose lets out a strangled gasp, and buries her face into the sheets, never wanting him to stop.

* * *

Rose and her sisters slept for a good part of the journey to King's Landing. The entire afternoon she spent in the carriage, exhausted from her morning with Theon. Sansa sat on one side of her, lulling against her shoulder, and Arya laid on her back, her head in Rose's lap.

Days passed until the King's entourage finally stopped to rest at an inn. Desperate to stretch their legs, the girls begged their father for an adventure around the grounds, which he granted. He wasn't however, expecting them to remove their dresses and jump into the lake, splashing each other, shrieking like children. Luckily for them, he hadn't the energy to scold.

The following evening, Rose is sat across the river, her nose buried in a book. Hope stays at her side, occasionally nuzzling to her for affection. She sits, peacefully, for over an hour, but then she turns towards the mouth of the forest, and lets out a low whine.

Rose scratches her head. "What is it, Hope?"

"Rose!"

The scream comes from somewhere in the forest. Rose springs to her feet, squinting to see the small, skinny figure racing towards her. "Arya!" Her littlest sister jumps into her arms, sobbing hysterically. "What happened to you? You're _filthy_!"

"It wasn't my fault, it wasn't my fault!"

Rose holds her at arms-length. "Arya, slow down. Talk to me."

Her face is wet with tears, streaked with mud. "Joffrey was bullying the butcher's boy, so I hit him, and now they're looking for me, because Nymeria bit him, but she was only trying to protect me, she doesn't deserve to die for it."

Rose's heart sinks. "What are you—?"

"Over here!"

At the opening of the darkened forest, a horde of Lannister horses come trotting towards them. Arya looks at them in horror. "Don't let them punish me," she pleads.

"It's alright." Rose trembles, pulling her sister to her side. "It's going to be alright."

* * *

The soldiers escort them back to the inn, where the Lannisters and Robert are waiting for them. When he sees them, a sullen look crosses the King's face. Arya continues to sniffle, but Rose keeps a hold of her hand, glaring down those who appear to frighten her.

Ned enters minutes later, shoving his way through the soldiers to get to his daughters. He reaches Arya first.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she repeats, hysterically.

Ned takes her face in his hands, scanning her. "Are you hurt?"

"No."

"It's alright." He tugs her into his arms, holding her close. Looking over the top of her head, he catches Rose's apprehensive gaze. "They said they found you in the forest. What on _earth_ were you doing out there alone?"

Rose's cheeks grow warm. "I was . . . reading."

Ned sighs. Then he rounds on the Lannisters with a furious look on his face. "What is the meaning of this? Why were my daughters not brought to me at once?"

"How dare you speak to your King in that manner?"

"Quiet, woman," Robert croaks. Cersei falls silent instantly. "Sorry, Ned. I never meant to frighten the girls. But we need to get this business done quickly."

"Your girl and that butcher's boy attacked my son," Cersei says, quietly. She looks to Joffrey, whose bloodied hand is wrapped in bandages, a surly look on his face. "That animal of hers nearly tore his arm off."

"That's not true," Arya protests. "She just . . . bit him a little. He was hurting Mycah."

Cersei's eyes narrow. "Joff told us what happened. You and that boy beat him with clubs while you set your wolf on him."

"That's not what happened!"

"Yes, it is," Joffrey spits, all venomous. "They all attacked me and _she_ threw my sword in the river."

"Liar!"

"Shut up!"

"Enough," the King shouts, his voice booming through the inn. His face turns a brilliant shade of red. " _He_ tells me one thing, _she_ tells me another. Seven Hells! What am I to make of this?" A tense silence hovers in the air. Finally, Robert grunts out, "Where's your other daughter, Ned?"

"In bed, asleep."

"She's not." Cersei looks toward the staircase, taking a deep breath and softening her gaze. "Sansa, come here, darling."

The stairs creak as Sansa walks down them. The room fills with curious whispers, the crowd parting for her, until she reaches the front of the procession. Her hands fidget and shake in front of her.

"Now, child." Robert beckons her forward. "Tell me what happened. Tell it all and tell it true. It's a great crime to lie to a King."

Sansa looks, helplessly to Ned, but he says nothing. Joffrey captures her gaze next, a rigid look on his face. A silent conversation seems to happen between them. "I don't know," she murmurs, eventually. "I don't remember. Everything happened so fast. I didn't see."

"Liar!"

Arya bounds forward and violently pulls the back of her hair, screaming at the top of her lungs, "Liar, liar, liar!" Rose quickly grabs hold of Arya, dragging her away from their other sister, while Ned bellows, louder than ever, and pushes his daughters apart, ordering them to stop.

Cersei smirks. "She's as wild as that animal of hers. I want her punished."

"What would you have me do?" Robert snaps. "Whip her through the streets? Damn it, children fight. It's over."

"Joffrey will bear these scars for the rest of his life."

Robert turns to his son. "You let that little girl disarm you?"

Joffrey gapes, clearly at a loss for words. He averts his gaze to the floor, blushing furiously.

Robert looks to Ned. "See to it that your daughter is disciplined. I'll do the same with my son."

"Gladly, Your Grace."

Robert nods, and rises to his feet.

"And what of the direwolf?" Cersei asks. "What of the beast that savaged your son?"

Robert pauses. "I forgot the damned wolf." He looks to his nearest soldier.

"We found no trace of the direwolf, Your Grace."

"No? So be it."

"We have another wolf," Cersei interjects.

The King stares at her. Rose holds her breath and grabs onto Sansa's hand.

Though his face is full of remorse, Robert nods. "As you will."

Ned frowns. "You can't mean it—?"

Robert leans in close to him, lowering his voice. "A direwolf's no pet," he insists. "Get her a dog. She'll be happier for it." He parts the crowd again, heading for the door.

Sansa catches on. "He doesn't mean Lady, does he? No, no, not Lady," she screeches. "Lady didn't _bite_ anyone! She's _good_!"

"Lady wasn't there," Arya shouts. " _You_ leave her alone!"

"Stop them, father," Rose begs, grabbing his arm. "This isn't fair!"

"Please, please, it wasn't Lady!"

"Is this your command, Your Grace?" Ned asks, tersely.

Robert stops, gives him a short look, then stalks off, the door slamming behind him.

Cersei turns to the guard. "Where is the beast?"

"Chained up outside, Your Grace."

"Ser Ilyn, do me the honour."

"No," Ned snarls. "Jory, take the girls to their rooms." He turns away from Sansa's tear-stained face, and walks over to Cersei. "If it must be done, then I'll do it myself."

"Is this some trick?" she demands, scornfully.

"The wolf is of the North," Ned says. "She deserves better than a butcher."

He looks at them, Cersei, then Joffrey, with disgust all over his face. Then, he turns on his heel and follows Robert out of the door. Rose lets the tears flow, freely down her cheeks, wrapping either of her arms around her sisters, who welcome her embrace.

* * *

Rose sits, cross-legged on her bed, Hope's head in her lap. She continues to stroke her as tears pour down her cheeks, dripping onto her dress. The door opens, revealing Ned, who has a solemn look on his face.

"Did you do it?" she asks, her voice trembling. "Did you kill her?"

Ned sighs and closes the door. "It had to be done. I fear what Cersei would have ordered me to do to your sister, otherwise." He sits down on the side of her bed.

Rose's chin wobbles. "Are you furious with me?"

"I'd rather you didn't wander off by yourself in the future, that's all," he insists. "If something were to happen to you, and I wasn't there to stop it, I'd never be able to look in the mirror again. I know you can't possibly understand what it's like, to want to keep your children from harm, but you will someday. Then you'll understand why I get cross from time to time."

Rose wipes her face on her sleeve. "If something were to happen to you, I'd hate myself, too."

Ned smiles, sadly. "Sweet girl." He cradles her face in his hands and plants a kiss on her forehead. Then, he takes her hands. "You'll keep clear of the prince, from now on. I don't want any more trouble, not from you, not from Arya. Promise me?"

She nods. "I promise."

Ned gives her hand a squeeze. "Alright. Get to bed." He pushes himself to his feet, leading Hope off the bed. "We'll be travelling again in the morning." He waits until she's snuggled under the covers before leaving the room with her wolf, gently shutting the door behind him.

The moment her head hits the pillow, she feels herself drifting to sleep, dreaming of being home in Winterfell, with Robb, and Jon, and Bran there too, playing together in the courtyard. Reading and shooting arrows.

A creaking sound makes her jump. She opens her eyes and sits up in bed, rubbing her eyes, watching her bedroom door slowly swing open. "Father?" she whispers.

"Not quite."

Rose's heart plummets to her stomach. She flings the covers off herself, and leaps to her feet, which pad against the wooden floor. "My Prince. What are you doing here?"

Joffrey shuts the door. "I thought we might have a little talk."

"Talk?" Rose echoes. Her mind races, frantically wondering how he made it here unnoticed. "About what?"

"I wanted to make sure we were on the same page about a few things."

Rose says nothing. Joffrey stares back, rounding her bed to stand in front of her. His eyes trail over her night dress, with a wry smile. "Today, your little sister savaged me with her beast." He fidgets with the bandages on his hand. "Perhaps tomorrow, she'll try and drip poison in my mouth while I sleep, or run me through with my own sword."

"Arya meant no harm—"

"I'm sure she didn't. It's a serious crime, to assault a prince." He steps even closer to her, watching as she shuffles back against her dresser. "She doesn't have a mother here to keep her in line, while her father busies himself with politics. I suppose, you're the closest thing she has to a maternal figure in her life, at this very moment."

Rose swallows. "I will do better to control her, My Lord, if that's—"

"I know you will. If you don't, I'll have to find a way to punish you."

She can feel the edge of her dresser pressing into the small of her back. Joffrey is so close to her now, she can feel his warm breath on her face. Standing this close, he is not as handsome as she thought. His features are too pointed and sneering. Her hand feeling behind her, she grabs a hold of the head band with her secret dagger, wondering if she could actually do it, whether she could actually run him through.

She holds her breath. Joffrey runs his fingers through her golden hair, and drags his hand down her body. Over her breast, as slow as anything, then round to her side, over her hip.

"Perhaps I'll take you out into the woods and bend you over a tree stump."

His words slam into Rose's chest with tremendous force. Suddenly, she cannot breathe. Joffrey's eyes bear into hers, taunting, flashing with something close to lust. _How did he know? How could he know?_

"I'd like to know what it feels like to fuck a Stark girl." His hand moves to the back of her thigh. Then it goes upwards, pushing the flimsy material of her night dress up, exposing her skin. She can feel his cold hand against the inside of her thigh. But, she's rooted to the spot, unable to move, or think.

"Theon Greyjoy is your father's ward, yes? I wonder what he would think if he found out his daughter was ravishing him in the Godswood like a common whore."

Rose does move then, pushing against his chest. "Please, don't," she whimpers.

Joffrey grabs her by the throat, holding it, hard, and slams her against the wall. "I won't," he promises. His lips graze her cheek. "Not yet, at least." When she doesn't look at him, his other hand grabs her face, turning it to meet his gaze. "I'm holding you personally responsible for any future dispute from _either_ of your sisters. If they make an attempt on my life again, I will tell your father what you've done, and he will likely have your lover's head removed from his shoulders. Do you understand me?"

Fresh tears spring to Rose's eyes. She nods.

"Good." Joffrey releases her, taking a pointed step back. She remains, frozen against the wall. He smiles, suddenly courteous, and bows his head. "Sleep well, My Lady."

The second he leaves the room, she crumbles to the floor.


	3. Lord Snow

**A/N:** contains sexual content and suggestions of assault.

* * *

 **Lord Snow**

"All men are made of water; do you know this? If you pierce them, the water leaks out and they die."

* * *

King's Landing scorches under the heat of the sun. The women in the city wear elaborate dresses that show their skin, with hair in braided crowns over their heads. The southern knights wear armour of red and gold, and bow their heads when the Starks pass in their cart, which rickets along the dirt road.

Sansa grips onto Rose's hand, chattering excitedly once they reach the city. Arya, on the other hand, remains silent and brooding on her other side. The procession makes its way through the great bronze gates, into the castle walls.

The Red Keep looms over them, a glorious masterpiece made of red stone, overlooking the mouth of Blackwater Rush. It's smaller than Winterfell, but it has seven humungous drum-towers crowned with iron ramparts and massive curtain walls that surround the castle.

The horses slow to a stop. Rose sees her father dismounting his horse, at the very front of the procession. A royal steward approaches him with the sort of rigid formality you wouldn't find in Winterfell.

"Welcome, Lord Stark," he greets. "Grand Maester Pycelle has called a meeting of the Small Council. The honour of your presence is requested."

Ned looks back over his shoulder, at Septa Mordane. "Get the girls settled in. I'll be back in time for supper. And, Jory, you go with them."

"Yes, My Lord."

Rose flinches. She had been silently hoping her father planned to spend the whole day with them. She has hardly left his side since Joffrey had entered her room that night, but knows if she becomes any more dependent on his company, he'll start to notice something is wrong.

But the question is still on her mind—how _did_ Joffrey find out about her and Theon? Had he seen them together in the Godswood? Unless someone else had seen, and told Joffrey. Which would mean someone else knows, too. But does it really matter?

The important thing is, he knows. Any more mistakes, and so will her father. And the thought of losing him is simply unbearable.

* * *

Rose rests her chin in her palm, fidgeting with her food, but finding herself unable to eat a thing. It all feels like swallowing lumps of sand. Next to her, Arya repeatedly stabs the table with her knife, her eyes blazing.

Septa tuts, angrily. "Enough of that, young lady. Eat your food."

"I'm practising," Arya snarls, through gritted teeth.

Rose frowns. "Practising for what?"

"The prince."

Rose gapes at her in alarm.

"Arya, stop," Septa gasps, appalled.

"He's a liar and a coward! And he killed my friend."

"The _Hound_ killed your friend," Sansa protests.

"The Hound does whatever the prince tells him to do," Arya shouts.

Sansa purses her lips. "You're an idiot."

"You're a liar, and if you told the truth, Mycah would be alive!"

"Shut up!" Rose surprises even herself, springing to her feet, her chair falling backwards onto the stone floor. "Just shut up, both of you, just _shut it_! If anything, it's _both_ of your faults Mycah is dead. And if you think you can kill the prince with a breadknife, then you _are_ an idiot! He's too protected and he's too powerful and if you two would just behave yourselves for one second, there wouldn't have been any trouble in the first place, and I _hate_ you both for it!"

She punctuates the word by picking up the broken bread and throwing it back at the table, where it sends food sprawling to the floor and water dripping from the wooden surface. Septa staggers back, away from the mess. " _That_ is quite enough!"

"What's happening here?"

Rose inwardly groans when her father enters the room.

Septa brushes herself down, indignantly. "Arya would rather act like a beast than a lady. And as for Rose, I'm not quite sure what's gotten into her recently, but throwing food about is no way for a girl to behave."

Ned looks back and forth between his daughters.

"Go to your rooms, the both of you. We'll speak later."

Rose turns and hurries away before he can see her cry.

* * *

The door budges behind her. "Rose?"

"Leave me alone!"

"Move out of the way so I can open the door." Ned tries to push it open, but Rose shoves it backwards again. She wraps her arms tighter around herself, resting her forehead on her knees. "Now, Rose, or there'll be trouble."

Feeling drained, she clambers to her feet and reluctantly opens the door. Her father looks furious, but when he catches sight of her tear-stained face, he softens. She turns away from him and leaps onto the bed, hugging her pillow, burying her face in it.

She feels the mattress sink down with the weight of him. "Look, I don't want to yell at you, love," Ned insists. "I just want an explanation."

Rose doesn't stir.

Ned sighs. "You can stay here and sulk as much as you like, but I can't help if I don't know what's going on." He waits, but she still says nothing. "Your poor sisters think you hate them. Did you say that?"

"I don't hate them," she mumbles into the pillow. After a second, she turns her head towards him, her hair stuck to her wet face. "Sometimes I wish Arya would grow up quicker. She's behaving like a monster."

"And throwing food across the table? Is that not monstrous behaviour?"

Rose lifts an eyebrow. "Less damage than sticking it with a knife."

A hint of a smile plays on Ned's lips. "I'll make sure she calms down. We're wild, us Northerners. Arya's a Northerner if I ever did see one." His attempt to lighten the mood fails miserably. Sighing again, he brushes the hair out of her eyes, grazing her cheekbone with his thumb. "We can't be fighting wars amongst ourselves here. Your sisters think you're the most precious thing since gold. They look up to you. If you start behaving like a beast, so will they."

Rose bites her lip. "I'm sorry."

"I know you are, love. That doesn't mean I'm not going to punish you for it."

She groans, burying her face back in the pillow. "I hate that word."

"Every child does." Ned pushes himself to his feet and plods across the room, back towards the door. "You can stay here for the rest of the night and do some thinking."

"Father?" Rose sits up, her brow furrowed. "I'm not a child, you know."

Ned considers this. "Then, no more acting like one."

* * *

 _Her back presses against the bark of the tree. She's in the Godswood, back in Winterfell, and he's with her. Their nakedness warms one another in the cold, their hot flesh grazing together. Theon lifts her up, and she wraps her legs around his waist, welcoming the feeling of him inside of her. His hands support her as he begins to thrust, taking her with hard, sweet strokes. The rough bark scratches against her bare back, but his fingers are gentle, holding her thighs._

" _You are the best thing about Winterfell, My Lady."_

 _She moans, lacing her fingers in his hair, pressing his face to her chest. His lips close around her nipple, sucking, circling with his tongue. His name falls off her lips with each unrelenting thrust, and he moves faster, harder, as pleasure overwhelms her body._

 _He draws back from her breast. She opens her eyes, wondering why, and lets out a scream._

 _The face of Theon has morphed into Joffrey, who continues to pound into her against the tree, his snarling face against hers. She shrieks at the top of her lungs, thumping against her chest, begging him to let go . . ._

"Rose! _Rose_!"

* * *

Her eyes snap open and focus in on the ceiling. Her back is pressing against something soft. Her bedsheets are damp around her, sweat glistening on her brow. Someone is shaking her shoulders, big blue eyes, anxious in the dark.

"Gods, Sansa," she pants, covering her face in her hands. "You frightened me."

"You were having a nightmare," she whispers. "I don't think anyone else heard."

Rose wipes her forehead on the sleeve of her nightdress. When she tries to sit up, a dull ache grows in the pit of her belly. "Ow." Suddenly, she notices a dark smudge on the sheet covering her. Flinging it off, she sees smears of blood between her thighs, staining her night dress. "Oh."

"What is it?"

"I'm flowering," Rose whispers.

Sansa stares for a second. "Is that not a good thing?"

"Yes. Yes, it's a good thing. But, it hurts." She fidgets with the splotched sheets, at a loss for what to do. Her sister meets her gaze with a comforting smile. "Go and wake Septa for me, would you? Tell her what's happened, but nothing about the nightmare. I don't want her worrying father."

Sansa nods, like a frantic bird, and quickly leaps from the bed.

When she pads out the door, Rose collapses back down against the pillows, the pain in her belly managing to overshadow the violent memories of her dream.


	4. Cripples, Bastards, and Broken Things

**A/N:** contains violence and mild sexual content.

* * *

 **Cripples, Bastards and Broken Things**

"The next time you raise a hand to me will be the last time you have hands."

* * *

As time goes by, it became easier to settle into palace life. Rose spent hours with her sisters, reading, sewing, even entertaining Arya, waving sticks in the air and frolicking around like they were knights. When she was with them, it was easy to forget about Winterfell, about Theon, and Joffrey's threats. Especially since Arya had finally started to behave herself.

Dressing the part was the best bit. All the beautiful dresses she and Sansa tried on—Arya had wrinkled her nose and said, no thank you—and the elaborate new ways to do their hair. Sansa fashioned hers in a twisted crown over her head. Rose tried to imitate, but felt it looked ridiculous on her, settling for a braided knot at the back of her head.

The fabrics turned from fur into silk, showing more skin that she would normally find acceptable. But Rose loved the way it fitted on her body, highlighting her long legs and the slight growth of her breasts (helped by all the messy flowering). She even found some golden belts that she could wrap around her tummy, sucking it into a better shape. Looking at the skinny ladies of the capital, she was starting to regret all the gorging at the Northern feasts.

"What do you think of this one?"

Looking up from her reading, she sees Sansa standing in front of the mirror, admiring her reflection. Rose smiles, brightly. "Stunning." She gets to her feet and approaches her. "Purple is your colour."

Sansa plays with her hair. "Do you think the prince will like it?"

Rose tries not to flinch. "I think you're the loveliest lady in King's Landing. Anyone who thinks different is a fool."

Sansa beams and sits down in her chair. Rose begins to twist her fire-kissed locks up and away from her face, with gentle care. Sansa is quiet for a long time. Then, she asks, in a timid voice, "What does it feel like? To flower?"

Rose grimaces. "It hurts, I won't lie to you."

"But, do you feel like a woman? Like mother or the Queen?"

She considers this. Then, she moves to stand in front of Sansa, kneeling down and taking her hands. "Since we left Winterfell, we've all had to do an awful lot of growing up. Our childhoods belonged there. Things are different here."

Sansa nods, solemnly. "We were never supposed to stay there forever." Her gaze travels downwards, and turns curious. Without warning, she stretches out a finger and prods the exposed part of Rose's breast.

" _Sansa_!"

"Sorry," she murmurs. "They look different."

Rose rolls her eyes and gets to her feet. "I'm getting a woman's body, I think. It'll happen to you too, not long from now."

Sansa looks down at her own chest. "I hope mine don't get too big."

Rose cradles her face in her hands, grinning. "They could hang from your chest, and you'd still be beautiful."

She giggles. "Still, I'd rather they didn't."

A knock at the door silences them both. The door squeaks open, revealing a baby-faced, skinny page. He bows his head, then stretches out his hand, which holds a folded-up piece of paper. "A raven came for you, Lady Stark."

Rose walks over and takes it, scrutinising the handwriting.

"Is it from mother?" Sansa asks, excitedly.

"No, it's . . . it's from Theon." She has to contain her delight. Holding herself with dignity, she smiles at her sisters. "I'll be back soon."

Edging past the page, she scans the gallery to make sure she's alone, then picks up her skirt and dashes into her room, closing and locking the door behind her. With trembling hands, she practically tears the letter open, her breath quickening.

* * *

 _Rose,_

 _I miss you terribly. Things haven't been going well here in Winterfell. I hope your father is taking good care of you and your sisters. Bran is alive and well, but finding his new condition difficult._

 _I fear that your father will keep you in the dark to protect you from the truth, but I want you to know. Your mother has found evidence implicating the Lannisters' involvement in Bran's accident and believes it to be a failed assassination attempt. Robb and I have insisted on taking revenge through military action, but Maester Luwin has counselled us with patience. It seems things between our families will never be peaceful until your mother has hunted down those responsible for her son's fall._

 _Please, keep this information to yourself. Burn this letter once you've read it, and do not tell your sisters, nor your father._

 _Regardless of circumstances, you are constantly on my mind. I think of you, and my entire body ignites. I miss your soft skin against mine. I miss hearing you moan my name as you ride me. I miss watching your body writhe beneath my touch._

 _I hope that you find someone in the South who gives you the same pleasure. Be safe, and do what your father asks._

 _Until we see one another again,_

 _Theon._

* * *

Rose stares at the words on the page, not seeing them. A swell of different emotions, the sadness from her brother's suffering, the revelation of the Lannisters betrayal, the heat in her body from Theon's coarse words, overwhelm her. But, she doesn't cry.

Instead, a new sense of resolve forms inside of her.

Between Joffrey's threats and someone crippling her little brother, it's like seeing the world for the very first time. And, she hates it. Trusting that Robb and her mother can deal with the Lannisters, she silently promises to protect her sisters against those who turn against her family. King or peasant, she doesn't care.

They'll all have to go through her first.

* * *

The tournament is alive with laughter, glistening armour and drunken behaviour under the scorching sun. The warm, summer air provides a little comfort to the three girls sat in the stands with Septa, whispering, and admiring the Southern knights.

Sansa peeks behind her every so often, trying to catch the prince's eye. But Joffrey only glances at her, fleetingly, then turns his head. Rose gives her hand a comforting squeeze when she looks crestfallen.

"Lover's quarrel?"

The girls look up to see a slender man, with cold blue eyes and hints of grey in his dark hair, smirking down at them. Sansa frowns. "I'm sorry. Do I—?"

"Sansa, dear, this is Lord Baelish," Septa introduces. "He's known . . ."

"An old friend of the family," Baelish interrupts.

Rose's eyes narrow. "Then, how come we've never met you before?"

His focus shifts to her, taking her in, with a warm smile. "I've been somewhat distant for a number of years. But, I've known your mother a long, long time, I can assure you, My Lady."

Rose stares him out as he sits down next to Sansa.

"Why do they call you Littlefinger?" Arya asks.

Sansa gapes. "Arya!"

"Don't be rude," Septa scolds.

"No, it's quite all right." Lord Baelish's eyes light up. "When I was a child, I was very small, and I come from a little spit of land called The Fingers." He chuckles, but it rings hollow. "So, you see, it's an exceedingly clever nickname."

From the rostrum, the King pulls his heavy self to his feet. "I've been sitting here for days," he roars, drunkenly. "Start the damn joust before I piss myself!" Then, he slumps back into his seat as the crowd erupts in cheers.

The sound of galloping hooves turns heads. A knight, larger than any Rose has ever seen before, makes his way down the jousting grounds, to the sound of tremendous applause.

"Gods, who is that?" Sansa gasps.

"Ser Gregor Clegane," Littlefinger says. "They call him the Mountain. He's the Hound's older brother."

The Mountain halts in front of the King, and bows his head.

"And his opponent?"

"Ser Hugh of the Vale. He was Jon Arryn's squire. Look how far he's come."

Hugh lifts his helm and also bows his head, but not before giving his competitor a wary glance. Looking at the Mountain, Rose wonders if she'll ever see his face, alive and breathing, again. She feels awful that she didn't take the time to study it.

"Yes, yes, enough of the bloody pomp," the King slurs. "Have at it!"

The Mountain and Ser Hugh fix their helms and divert to opposite ends of the jousting lane. The sound of a horn blowing, echoing in the summer air, sends the crowds into another fit of cheering. Rose feels a little exhilarated, watching the two knights face one another from afar.

Then, they charge at one another, the horses no longer galloping, but sprinting on the dusty lane, both of the knights pointing their lances. Sansa's hand clenches around Rose's so tightly, the blood flow momentarily stops. It's over in a blur, the knights grazing past one another, but neither one falling from the lance's punch.

There isn't time to exhale in relief. The knights reach their opposite ends, round them, and start hurtling towards each other again. At the last moment, the Mountain slams his lance through the wooden barrier that separate their lanes, splicing through Ser Hugh's neck. Sansa lets out a shriek at Rose's side.

The knight is sent flying from his horse, onto the ground, directly in front of the Stark sisters. Rose gapes in horror as Ser Hugh twitches, uncontrollably, on the ground, the splinter in his neck sending blood spouting everywhere. When it fills his throat and spills from his lips, he finally goes still.

Then, two servants make their way on the jousting lane and drag his body away.

Littlefinger turns to the girls. "Not what you were expecting?"

Rose bites down on her bottom lip. Although the nature of the knight's death was horrifying to say the least, the sight of them charging at one another, their jousting sticks raised, the roar of the crowd, was thrilling. A part of her suddenly understands why Arya is so desperate to be a knight. Imagine riding out onto the battlefield with that very same feeling, striking down your enemies, watching them bleed out before your very eyes. The thought both disturbs and stimulates her at the same time.

"Has anyone ever told you the story of the Mountain and the Hound?" Littlefinger asks, leaning closer. "Lovely little tale of brotherly love."

Rose glances over her shoulder at where the Hound is stood, close to the King, his scarred face expressionless, but his cold eyes fixated on the Mountain.

Littlefinger's voice drops into a whisper. "The Hound was just a pup, six years old maybe. Gregor a few years older, already a big lad, already getting a bit of a reputation. Some lucky boys just born with a talent for violence. One evening, Gregor found his little brother playing with a toy by the fire. Gregor's toy, a wooden knight. Gregor never said a word, he just grabbed his brother by the scruff of his neck and shoved his face into the burning coals. Held him there while the boy screamed, while his face melted."

Sansa goes very, very still at Rose's side.

"There aren't very many people who know that story," Littlefinger says.

"I won't tell anyone," she stammers out. "I promise."

"No, please don't." His eyes watch Sansa, intently. "If the Hound so much as heard you mention it, I'm afraid all the knights in King's Landing would not be able to save you."

Sansa's face pales.

Rose loops her arm through hers. "Does the King pay you to frighten little girls with your stories?" she asks Littlefinger, her voice cold and biting.

He grins. "If he did, I'd be far richer."

Rose says nothing. She pulls Sansa closer to her, further from him, and glares at Littlefinger until his smile fades.


	5. The Wolf and the Lion

**A/N:** contains violence.

* * *

 **The Wolf and the Lion**

"You want to know the horrible truth? I can't even remember what she looked like. I only know she was the one thing I ever wanted. Someone took her away from me, and seven kingdoms couldn't fill the hole she left behind."

* * *

The hallways are quiet when Rose steps out of her chambers. Looking around her, she can't see a knight anywhere, an indication of how late she is to the jousting tournament.

She shuts the door, then turns around, and slams into someone. Stepping back, she looks up to see Littlefinger's haughty face. "Lord Baelish."

He smiles. "The lovely Rose of Winterfell can call me Petyr. Are you in need of someone to accompany you to the joust?"

"No. But, you're more than welcome to."

"It'll be an honour." He holds out his arm, looking at her, expectantly.

Suddenly nervous, Rose takes it and allows him to lead her down the stone hallway, his eyes watching her, carefully. "You said you were an old friend of my mother's."

"I knew her when she was a Tully at Riverrun, yes. Such a beautiful woman, full of love and loyalty." His voice is filled with this strange ache, a sort of yearning. "Traits I'm sure she passed down to you."

Rose grins. "Sansa takes after her, more so than I. In truth, I'm not much like either of my parents."

"Your sister _is_ a beauty," Littlefinger says, pensively. "The prince must be pleased with her."

Rose turns to look at him. He's no longer watching her, but rather watching their feet walk in matching, slow strides. "What do you know about Joffrey?" she asks, cautiously.

Littlefinger's face hardens. "He's like most children with a title. Spoiled, arrogant, childish."

Rose abruptly stops. "You imply that all titled children are monsters."

"Which certainly wouldn't apply to you." Littlefinger moves to stand in front of her, his gaze trailing over her in a way that makes her want to cross her arms over her chest. Today, she's wearing a gown of deep green, shimmering fabric, that dips into her cleavage and sweeps to her feet. "You're not a child, Lady Rose. You're a woman, are you not?"

Rose feels her cheeks warming, but says nothing.

Littlefinger's demeanour changes into something rigid. "Joffrey is the spawn of a Lannister and a drunken King," he confesses, sounding truthful, for the first time to Rose's ears. "Ask me if he's worthy of your sister, and I will say no." He scrutinises her. "Has he been cruel to you?"

Rose grits her teeth. "I'm not afraid of him. If he lays a hand on my sister, I'll—"

Making her jump, Littlefinger suddenly grabs her, putting his hand over her mouth, drawing her close to him. "Careful, My Lady," he whispers. "The walls have ears."

He glances, pointedly over his shoulder. Rose holds her breath when she sees a knight crossing the hallway, not looking in their direction. As soon as he's gone, Littlefinger removes his hand from her face, brushing aside loose strands of her hair. "I recommend keeping your thoughts to yourself, from now on, if you wish to survive your stay in the capital."

Rose takes a breath. "I've never been very good at keeping quiet."

Littlefinger takes her arm again. "Then, you're more like your mother than you believe."

* * *

Ned's face hardens when he sees Rose approaching on Littlefinger's arm. But, he says nothing, instead getting to his feet, allowing her to occupy the seat next to him. A tense, wordless conversation occurs between him and Lord Baelish as they all sit down, the latter choosing the bench behind them.

The Mountain rides up to the King and Queen, bowing in formality.

"Where's Arya?" Ned asks.

Rose shrugs.

"At her dancing lessons," says Sansa. She turns to look at the Mountain's opponent, a knight in bright, silver armour, with a head of golden curls. She breaks out into a smile. "The Knight of the Flowers."

Ser Loras rides in front of the stands, holding a red rose in his gloved hand. He stops directly in front of Sansa, and offers it to her, with a bright smile. Rose grins at her sister, who looks as though she might burst with glee. "Thank you, Ser Loras," she splutters out.

Loras nods, to both of the girls, then rides up to the King and Queen. As he bows, with theatricality, the Mountain's beautiful black horse lets out a loud whinny, bucking against Ser Loras. He grins, smugly, and makes his way to the opposite end of the track.

Sansa stretches a hand across Rose's lap to grab their father's. "Don't let Ser Gregor hurt him," she pleads, fearfully. Ned squeezes her hand. "Oh, I can't watch."

At either end of the track, the squires ready the knights with their lances, but the Mountain's horse is still whining, jittery beneath him. "He's going to die," Sansa complains. Rose wraps a comforting arm around her.

"Ser Loras rides well," Ned assures.

The trumpet blasts, roaring through the breeze. The Mountain's horse is the first to run, dashing across the lane. Ser Loras is seconds behind, but balances his jousting stick, expertly in his hand, as the two knights hurtle towards one another.

When they cross, he jabs his lance through the wooden barrier and strikes the Mountain's shield, neatly in the centre. Like wind blowing a feather, the Mountain topples from his horse, into the barrier and lands with a sickening thud. Rose can't help the giddy laugh that escapes her. Loras gallops to the end of his lane, basking in the glow of applauding patrons.

Littlefinger leans forward, putting a hand on Sansa's shoulder. "Loras knew his mare was in heat," he whispers. "Quite crafty, really."

"Ser Loras would never do that," Sansa snaps. "There's no honour in tricks."

"No honour, but quite a bit of gold."

Ned gives him a ferocious look that silences him.

On the lane, the Mountain removes his helm and slams it, with a furious roar, to the dirt ground. "Sword!" he bellows. Rose is sure she can feel the bench vibrate beneath her at the rumble of his voice.

A squire runs, from quite a distance, towards the Mountain, handing him a blade that is nearly as tall as him. Without warning, the Mountain lifts the sword over his head and brings it down on the horse's neck, which lets out a pained whine, collapsing to the ground. The applause promptly dies, replaced with horrified gasps, as the ground soaks with the creature's blood.

Then, the Mountain slashes his sword at Ser Loras, knocking him off his own horse, which runs away, whinnying. People are on their feet, looking on in shock, as the Mountain slams his sword, over and over, down onto Ser Loras's shield. The wood cracks apart, leaving him defenceless.

Just when the Mountain rears back to make the killing blow, the Hound leaps, as if from nowhere, onto the lane. "Leave him be!" he roars. With his own sword, he manages to block the blow, giving Loras a chance to duck out of the way.

Rose feels her blood running cold as she watches: the Mountain, and the Hound, two enormous beasts slashing at each other with aggression she's never seen before, their faces twisted in hatred.

"Stop this madness in the name of the King!"

The Hound ceases immediately, ducking under the Mountain's final blow, lowering to his knees. The Mountain throws his sword into the dirt, turns on his heel and storms off.

"Let him go," the King commands.

Once he's disappeared from sight, the Hound rises to his feet, looking disgruntled. Ser Loras approaches him, beaming proudly, and mumbles something resembling a 'thank you', then grabs his hand and hoists it into the air in victory. Just like that, the tension is gone. Next to Rose, Sansa springs from her seat and begins clapping, vigorously, the rest of the crowd bursting into applause.

* * *

Rose walks from the balcony into her bedroom when she hears the door swinging open. Her littlest sister stands, filthy as ever, her cheeks pink from running. "Hello, monkey," she greets. "What've you been up to?"

"Do you think father's in danger?"

Rose gapes. "What? What makes you say that?"

"I overheard some men talking about lions fighting wolves, and bastards, and . . . something about the Hand dying."

Every inch of her body goes cold, in spite of the sticky heat. She kneels down in front of her littlest sister, taking her by the shoulders, staring her straight in the eye. "Arya, look at me. You mustn't make these things up—"

"I'm _not_ a liar," she protests, stomping her foot for emphasis. "I think someone's trying to hurt father."

Rose sighs. She cradles Arya's face in her hands. "I believe you. But, don't talk about this with anyone else. You and me, we'll find a way to keep him safe." Her voice fills with venom. "Safe from those rotten Lannisters."

Arya frowns. "You think it's the Lannisters?"

Rose shrugs, straightening up. "Do you know any other lions in King's Landing?"

* * *

 _Theon,_

 _I miss you, too. Everything in King's Landing is so different, and so difficult. Thank you for being honest with me about the assassination attempt. If the Lannisters are indeed plotting against us, it will have catastrophic results for my father. Sometimes, I wish he didn't keep the politics from us. Keep yourself safe in the meantime. Make sure that my brothers do nothing reckless._

 _My dreams are filled with you. These silk dresses are useless without someone to truly admire them. Hopefully, you will have the chance to see them soon. To answer your unspoken question, I haven't found a Southern knight that compares to you yet. I pray to the gods, the old and the new, that we will be together again._

 _With love,_

 _Rose._


	6. A Golden Crown

**A/N:** contains graphic sexual content.

* * *

 **A Golden Crown**

"There is only one god and his name is Death, and there is only one thing we say to Death: 'Not today'."

* * *

Rose is squeezing his hand so tightly, she can see his fingers turning white. It takes him a few hours, but he finally shifts in his sleep. With a groan, his eyes slip open, meeting hers instantly. A flash of relief crosses his face. "Where are your sisters?"

"With Septa."

Ned frowns. "Don't look at me like that, love."

"Tell me what's happening," she orders, quietly. "They said Jaime Lannister attacked you in the street. Arya overhead men talking of your death." When he averts his gaze, she grabs him by his shirt, giving him a shake. "You're keeping secrets from us, and I _hate_ it."

Ned shakes his head. "I tell you everything you need to know."

"If that's true, then be honest with me now." Rose trembles with rage, but she takes several deep breaths to calm herself. "Are we in danger here?"

He squirms, uncomfortably against the pillows. Looking down at his bloodied, bandaged leg, he lets out a long sigh. "Your mother travelled south some time ago," he murmurs. "She was attacked back in Winterfell, by an assassin carrying a Valyrian steel knife, one that belonged to Tyrion Lannister. Your mother rallied some allies and captured him, and now Jaime's demanding his brother's return."

Rose catches her breath. "So, it's true. We're sharing a home with our enemies."

Ned grasps her hand in both of his. "I will keep you safe."

"You can barely protect _yourself_ ," Rose cries, frustrated. A hurt look crosses his face, and she immediately softens. Leaning forward, she brushes strands of his unkempt hair out of his face, looking him, steadily in the eye. "I won't lie to you, I've loved living here," she confesses. "In the city, in all the excitement. But, the world has made it clear we don't belong in King's Landing." Tears start to form, a lump swelling in her throat. "We'll be safer in Winterfell, _together_ , as a family. We have to go home, now."

Ned doesn't say anything, but he nods in reluctant agreement.

* * *

Rose sits with him for a while, then leaves when he starts to drift off to sleep again. She tiptoes over to the door, closes it quietly, and turns to head around the corner. With a gasp, she bumps into something made of golden steel. Stepping back, she sees the armour of a rather handsome guard, with wispy blonde hair and brilliant blue eyes. "My apologies, My Lady."

Rose stares for a moment too long. "It's alright." She waits, but he doesn't move from his spot next to the door. "You've been guarding my father?"

"Indeed. I helped to recover him from the street."

She smiles. "That was kind of you."

The knight meets her gaze. "It was duty. And . . . he was in a bad way." He clears his throat, awkwardly, when he sees her face fall. "Regardless, I'm sure he'll pull through. The Red Keep is full of skilled Maesters who can prevent any infection from spreading." Rose blinks. He sighs, embarrassed. "Forgive me, I didn't mean to . . . I only meant—"

"You're sweet," she interrupts with a small giggle. "Thank you, Ser—?"

"Alastair."

Rose beams and offers her hand. He lifts it to his lips, his eyes never leaving hers. Looking at him, his gaze bearing into hers, she feels something she hasn't felt in a long time. A familiar warmth growing deep within her, making her blush.

"Are you married, Ser Alastair?" she asks, bluntly.

Alastair grins wider. "No. Marriage is a concept lost on me, I'm afraid."

"Are you a virgin?"

Rose can tell she's taken him by surprise when his eyebrow quirks. A strange silence lingers. Then, he closes the distance between them, so she can feel his breath on her face. "A man's innocence is not so necessary in this world, Lady Rose."

The blood sings in her veins. "Innocence is a concept lost on me, I'm afraid."

Before she can completely finish her sentence, he presses against her lower back, pulling her towards him, and claiming her mouth with his. She responds, feeling such a deep release, their tongues dancing, his hands running all over her.

Suddenly aware that they're exposed in a hallway, she pulls away from him. They glance around to make sure no one is looking. Then, Rose takes her hand and pulls him down the hallway, at a slow running pace, and into her chambers.

As soon as the door is closed, she leaps into his arms, kissing him with the same ferocity. Frantically, she claws at the back of her dress. He helps her out of it, and it falls to the floor in a puddle.

It takes her a second to realise that only one man has seen her naked before, and he's a thousand miles away, in Winterfell. She pushes the thought aside. Kissing someone in the midst of such chaos and violence feels too good to allow her nerves to take over now.

Rose helps to remove his breastplate and armour, leaving him in a loose shirt that shows the pale hair on his sculpted chest. She moves to take off his trousers, but he stops her, lifting her into his arms with her legs wrapping around his waist. As he carries her over to the bed, his mouth still on hers, she can feel his hardened member pressing against her exposed entrance.

They fall onto the bed together, where Alastair lays her, neatly on her back. Their kiss hardens into something more intense when she unbuckles his belt. He grinds against her heat, his lips trailing down to the soft skin of her neck. She moans and writhes as he kisses her, relentlessly, the feeling of him rubbing against her nearly sending her over the edge. She had completely forgotten how good it felt to be this way with a man.

Then, his belt is gone, and his trousers are down. And he pushes inside of her, extracting a satisfied whimper. He grinds into her slowly, his warm breath against the side of her neck. It feels different to Theon, but not in a bad way, like trying on the same dress in a different fabric.

She closes her eyes, revelling in the sensations, her frantic mind soothing.

* * *

When she awakens, the first thing she feels is the soreness of her limbs. Then his strong arms snaking around her, pulling her against his chest. He plants a small kiss to her shoulder.

"Alastair," she whispers. She rolls onto her back, and he props himself up on his elbow to look at her. His pretty blue eyes twinkle down at her.

"I have to leave. Someone will notice I'm gone, sooner or later."

He kisses her, deeply, but briefly. Then, flings off the sheets and gets to his feet. Rose rolls over and takes a moment to admire him, naked from behind. "I'll tell them I asked you to escort me across the grounds," she says. "They won't punish you for that."

Alastair grins as he pulls on his trousers. He kneels down in front of her and runs a hand down her side. "They'd punish me for this," he chuckles, giving her thigh a playful slap. "Let alone abandoning my post."

"I won't tell a soul," she promises.

He beams at her, brushing strands of hair from her face. "Thank you."

She watches him as he puts on his armour, fixes his helm and leaves the room, giving her one last wave. Basking in a state of glow and exhaustion, she snuggles back under the sheets and falls straight back to sleep.

* * *

"I'm sending the three of you back to Winterfell."

" _What_?" Sansa gasps.

Ned grimaces, hanging his head. "Listen—"

"What about Joffrey?"

"Are you dying because of your leg?" Arya asks, her voice trembling. "Is that why you're sending us home?"

"What? No!"

Rose scowls. "Does this mean you're not coming with us?"

"Please, father," Sansa begs, tearfully. "Please, don't."

"You can't. I've got my lessons with Syrio. I'm _finally_ getting good."

"This isn't a punishment," Ned insists. "I want you back in Winterfell for your own safety."

"And what about _your_ safety?" Rose demands, clenching her fists.

"Can we take Syrio back with us?"

"Who cares about your stupid dancing teacher?" Sansa cries. "I _can't_ go. I'm supposed to marry Prince Joffrey! I love him, and I'm meant to be his Queen and have his babies."

Arya rolls her eyes. "Seven Hells."

"You're a child, Sansa," Rose sighs. "You don't know anything about _true_ love."

Ned nods. "When you're old enough, I'll make you a match with someone who's worthy of you," he promises. "Someone brave, and gentle, and strong—"

"I don't want someone brave, and gentle, and strong! I want _him_!" Sansa snaps. Rose bites down on her lip to stop herself from laughing. "He'll be the greatest King that ever was, a golden lion, and I'll give him sons with beautiful blonde hair!"

"The lion's not his sigil, idiot," Arya murmurs.

Rose clutches Sansa's shaking hand. "He's a stag, like his father."

"He is _not_. He's nothing like that old, drunk king."

Ned stares at the three of them. He blinks, thinking wordlessly to himself, then turns his back, heading for his desk. "Go on, girls. Get your Septa and start packing your things."

"Wait!"

Rose stands, hauling her sisters to their feet. "Come on, both of you."

"But it's not fair," Sansa protests.

Rose practically drags them out of the room, but makes a point of slamming the door behind them. "I can't believe he's not coming home with us," she hisses, as they storm down the hallway together. "Is serving the Lannisters more important than his own family?"

"That's months of practising wasted," Arya mutters. "I'll never be a good swordsman now."

Sansa looks close to tears. "And _I_ shall never be Queen."

Rose stops, abruptly. The two girls look back over their shoulders to see why she's fallen behind. "Listen to yourselves," she sighs. "You're being _selfish_. Nothing, not your water dancing, or your precious, handsome prince compares to father's life."

Sansa gapes, but Arya gives her a sharp nudge with her pointed elbow. "She's right."

"He's in danger here," Rose continues. "And he's sending us away, which means he'll be all alone. How can any of us help him when we're in Winterfell?"

Sansa frowns. "You said it yourself. We're children. He's supposed to be the one protecting us, not the other way around."

Rose lifts her chin. "We're Starks. We protect each other. So, I say we take a stand. Either we all leave together, or none of us leave at all." She steps forward and stretches out her hand, which is as steady as a rock. "Deal?"

Sansa and Arya spare a glance. Then, they put their hands over hers, their fingers lacing together. "Deal."


	7. You Win or You Die

**A/N:** short chapter! contains sexual content.

* * *

 **You Win or You Die**

"When you play the game of thrones you win, or you die. There is no middle ground."

* * *

Rose pulls down her hood, stepping onto the dirt road. She turns the heads of street peasants, as Ser Alastair takes her by the hand and leads her into the heaving brothel. Judging from the fierce looks they give her, she's grateful to have him at her side.

The brothel is surprisingly hotter than the street, with the strong scent of perfume and sweat in the air, pleasured moans echoing through the hallways. Alastair takes her up three flights of stairs, right to the very top. When they burst into the room, Rose can't help but let out a small gasp.

Two women, both stark naked, reside on one of the plush beds. In front of them sits Littlefinger, with a large cup of wine in his hand. He stands when he sees them.

"She's a pretty thing," one of the girls, the redhead, coos from across the room.

"Lady Rose." Littlefinger looks dumbfounded. "What in Seven Hells are you doing here?"

"I need your help," she replies, breathlessly.

Littlefinger's eyes narrow. He hesitates, then turns to the two bare women, who watch them, curiously from the bed. "Leave us, and wash yourselves. Both of you are working tonight."

They gather up their clothes and head for the door. As she passes, the redhead gives Rose a flirtatious smile, her eyes full of heat.

Littlefinger leans against the table. "I see you didn't come here alone."

Rose glances over her shoulder at the knight hovering by the doorway. "Ser Alastair's a . . . friend of mine."

Littlefinger smirks, unconvinced. "A brothel is no place for a lady."

"I only came here to talk. My father can't know."

"My lips are sealed."

Rose fidgets with her cloak. "He wants to send my sisters and I home."

Littlefinger nods, acknowledging. "You don't want to go." His smile grows wider, snarkier. "Many a pleasure in King's Landing for a blossoming young woman."

"It's not that." Rose chews on her bottom lip. "All I want is for my family to be safe. I can't go back to Winterfell knowing that my father remains here, in danger."

"Your father is under King Robert's protection, his most trusted advisor."

Rose shakes her head, hopeless tears springing to her eyes. "Is there nothing that you can do?" she pleads. "Talk to him, or write to mother—"

Littlefinger steps forward and places his hands, gently on her shoulders. "I hate to disappoint you, sweet girl, but there is no one above your father's word in this matter." Comfortingly, he tucks a lock of hair over her ear. "Do what he asks. He knows what's best for you." Rose opens her mouth to protest. "Allow me to take you back to the Keep," he insists, before she can say anything else.

Crestfallen, she hangs her head, and nods once, her heart sinking.

* * *

"Her brother sold her to him, the Dothraki warlord, in exchange for an army. They say, as a wedding gift, he gave her three dragon eggs. The last in the world, utterly priceless."

Rose smiles. "He must truly love her."

Alastair brushes his hand down her bare spine. She listens, her head against his chest, to his steady heartbeat, thumping away. For a moment, she feels as though she'll drift off, but his voice cuts through the silence. "Have you ever been in love, My Lady?" he asks.

Rose considers this. "There is a boy, back home in Winterfell. We've been intimate with one another, but . . . our feelings remain unsaid." She frowns, then let out a small giggle. "Even if he did feel for me, he's far too proud to admit it."

"But you feel for him?"

"I'm not certain," she confesses. Shifting under the thin sheets, she rolls on top of him, strands of hair falling over his handsome face. "I always thought when I fell in love, it would be clear to me. That I would know, instantly, that my soul was tethered to another."

Alastair runs his hands up and down her sides. "Love, Lady Rose, is the most uncertain thing there is."

Rose grins, taking comfort in his words. He closes the distance between them and kisses her, deeply. Against her heat, she can feel his member beginning to harden again, and teasingly presses her entrance against it.

A sharp rap on the door makes her squeal. She leaps off Alastair, giving him a subconscious push, which sends him rolling from the bed and landing on the floor with a heavy thump. "Lady Rose?" comes Septa's voice, from the opposite side of the door.

Rose covers herself with the sheets. "Don't come in here!"

"Why ever not?"

"I'm . . . very, very naked. Just, one moment." She turns to Alastair, who is looking up at her in alarm. Gesturing wildly, she whispers, "under the bed!"

He nods, breaking out in a grin, and slides under the large bed, dragging his clothes with him. Rose fixes her hair, smoothing it out. "Come in," she calls, trying to keep her voice steady.

Septa Mordane bursts in. She seems a little taken aback by Rose's bare appearance, but composes herself quickly. "I'm sorry, sweetheart," she breathes. "But it's your father."

Rose swears her heart stops.


	8. The Pointy End

**The Pointy End**

"Not today."

* * *

"Your sister knew perfectly well we were leaving today. How could she forget—?"

"She didn't forget." Sansa's voice fills with contempt. "She's with her dancing master; she's with him every morning. She always comes back with scrapes and bruises, she's so clumsy."

Septa stops, abruptly. "Hush!"

Rose and Sansa falter either side of her. The distant sound of swords clanging together, followed by howls of pain, echo in the narrow hallway. Rose bites down on her lip, anxiously.

"Go back to your rooms," Septa orders, under her breath. "Bar the doors and do not open them for anyone you do not know."

Rose frowns. "Why? What's happening?"

"Do as I tell you," Septa hisses. "Run!"

Rose doesn't hesitate; she grabs Sansa's hand, which is beginning to shake, and drags her down the hallway, running as fast as she can in her sweeping gown. With every step, she can feel her heart hammering in her chest.

They weave through the hallways, sprinting from any distinct sound, up the staircases and past their chambers. "What is it?" Sansa cries. "What's wrong? Where are we going?"

Rose slows into a quick walking pace. "We're going to find Arya and father."

"But Septa told us—"

"I _know_ what she told us, but we can't leave them behind."

A large, dark figure comes around the corner and appears at the end of the hallway. Rose stops, Sansa bumping into her from behind. It takes Rose a moment, but the minute she sees the Hound's scarred face, smirking at them, darkly, she acts on impulse. Ripping the headband from her hair, she draws out the dagger, and pushes Sansa behind her.

"Touch us, and I'll run you through," she warns, her voice trembling.

The Hound advances, slowly towards them. "Put the knife down, girl, and I won't have to break your hand."

"We'll tell father," Sansa whimpers. "We'll . . . we'll tell the _Queen_."

The Hound barks a laugh. "Who do you think sent me?"

* * *

Rose paces her chambers, unable to sit down or rest. Her direwolf, Hope, lies quietly on her bed, her big blue eyes following her about the room. She stops, briefly, to rustle her golden fur, but can barely feel the softness under her palm. The world feels as if it's miles away.

She waits for what feels like hours until the door finally swings open, and her sister walks in, pale as a ghost. "What did they ask of you?" she demands.

Sansa blinks. "They said that . . . that father's been imprisoned for treason, that he was plotting to steal Joffrey's throne."

Rose frowns, her heart racing. "No. No, that can't be right."

"They made me write to mother and Robb, asking them to come to King's Landing and swear loyalty to the King."

Rose folds her arms over her chest. "When will they let us see him?"

"They won't." Sansa shakes her head, tears beginning to spill down her cheeks. "Rose they . . ." her breath catches, "they're going to kill him, aren't they? The punishment for treason is _death_ , everybody knows that."

"Stop." Rose squeezes her eyes shut, her chest filling with immense pain.

"What do we do?"

Rose opens her eyes. Sansa looks back at her, her shoulders beginning to shake with silent sobs. Unable to conjure a comforting thought, Rose closes the distance between them, wrapping her sister up in her arms and whispering consoling, but hollow words into her ear.

* * *

They stand in the throne room, their hands entwined. The entire time, Joffrey cannot keep his eyes from them, looking both conflicted and bemused. She knows what little scorn is in his eyes is directed at her.

"You should," Sansa whispers. "I can't."

Rose squeezes her hand. "Joffrey adores you," she insists, under her breath. "He won't be convinced if the words come from my mouth." Subtly, she turns her head so she can look her sister, steadily in the eye. "I _know_ you can do this, Sansa."

Sansa remains unsure, but lifts her chin a little.

"If any man in this hall has other matters to set before His Grace, let him speak now or go forth and hold his silence."

From across the room, Cersei stares at them, expectantly. Rose gives her sister a sharp nudge to the ribs. "Your Grace," she calls, softly.

Joffrey's face lights up. He beckons to her. "Come forward, My Lady."

Sansa looks at Rose, eyes wide and panicked, but reluctantly drops her hand and heads for the centre of the room. "The Lady Sansa of House Stark," the steward announces.

The room fills with whispers at the sound of her name. The Lords and Ladies close to Rose throw her looks, some dirty, but others sympathetic. Blushing, she wraps her arms around her chest, as though shielding herself from their contempt.

"Do you have some business for the King and the Council, Sansa?" Cersei asks.

"I do." Slowly, she lowers herself into a kneeling position, sucking in a deep, courageous breath. "As it please, Your Grace, I ask mercy for my father, Lord Eddard Stark, who was Hand of the King."

"Treason is a noxious weed," Pycelle wheezes. "It should be torn out, root—"

"Let her speak," Joffrey barks. "I want to hear what she says."

Sansa's lips turn up into a small smile. "Thank you, Your Grace."

"Do you deny your father's crime?" Littlefinger asks, from beside the throne.

"No, My Lords. I know he must be punished. All I ask is mercy. I know My Lord father must regret what he did. He was King Robert's friend and he loved him; you _all_ know he loved him." Her words spill out quicker, more frantic. "He never wanted to be Hand until the King asked him. They must have lied to him. Lord Renly or Lord Stannis or _somebody_. They must have lied!"

"He said I wasn't the King," Joffrey murmurs, frowning. "Why did he say that?"

"He was badly hurt," Sansa insists. "Maester Pycelle was giving him milk of the poppy. He wasn't himself, otherwise he never would have said it."

Lord Varys sighs. "A child's faith," he coos. "Such sweet innocence. And yet they say wisdom oft comes from the mouths of babes."

Maester Pycelle scowls. "Treason is treason!"

A tense silence hangs in the air. From across the room, Littlefinger's gaze swivels to where Rose is standing, rooted to her spot in the hall. His face gives nothing away, but he scans her, searching for her emotion. She stares back at him, trying to hide any sign of fear.

"Anything else?" Joffrey asks.

Sansa swallows. "If you still have any affection in your heart for me, please do me this kindness, Your Grace."

Joffrey sighs, leaning back in the throne. Rose holds her breath, watching a range of thoughts cross his face, until his jaw tenses, resolutely. "Your sweet words have moved me," he admits. Rose exhales. "But your father has to _confess_. He has to confess and say that I'm the King . . . or there'll be no mercy for him."

Sansa nods, happily. "He will."

Rose feels an enormous weight lift from her chest, but she silently reminds herself how far this is from being over.


	9. Baelor

**A/N:** contains violence.

* * *

 **Baelor**

"You grew up with actors. You learned their craft and you learnt it well. But I grew up with soldiers. I learned to die a long time ago."

* * *

Rose and Sansa lay, side by side, in bed. Rose has her arms wrapped around her, watching the curtain rustle against the warm summer breeze streaming in from the balcony. She closes her eyes, thinking back to Winterfell, remembering the mornings she spent with Theon at her side, holding him and kissing him. She would give anything to be back there.

"What do you think they're doing right now?" Sansa asks, softly. "Robb and mother."

Rose runs a hand over her flaming red hair. "Preparing for war, no doubt. I hear they've rallied the Northern armies and left Bran in charge of Winterfell." She chews on her bottom lip. "We can't control what happens next, you know that."

"The Queen said father's life depends on Robb."

"She's no longer Queen," Rose says, her voice sharper than intended. "Father's life depends on Joffrey." Her sister falls silent in her arms, squirming uncomfortably. Rose lets out a sigh and softens, adding, "You did well, in the throne room. I think you may have convinced him."

She feels Sansa's smile. "I hope so. He's kind, I know he is."

Rose frowns. Although she's done everything in her power to forget how Joffrey threatened her back at the inn, the memories flash through her now, making her shudder. She eases Sansa off her shoulder and sits up. "Do you truly believe so?" she asks.

"Of course." Sansa straightens up, too. "He promised never to be cruel to me."

Rose winces. "Has anyone _ever_ broken a promise to you before, Sansa?"

She shakes her head, frowning. "I don't think so."

Rose smiles, sadly, and rubs her, comfortingly on the arm. "As you get older, people will tell you things . . . _men_ will tell you things, things that they know you want to hear, but they won't follow through," she explains, as gently as possible. "When you become Joffrey's queen, you'll have to learn who you can trust and who you can't."

Sansa blinks, not understanding. "I can trust him, I know I can." She giggles at the concerned look on her face. "Everything is going to be alright now, Rose. I _know_ it will be."

* * *

Rose sits in front of the mirror, brushing out her golden hair. She looks worse than usual, with dark circles under her eyes, and a strange paleness to her freckled skin. She wears the dress that gives her body the best shape, and weaves flowers in her hair, like she did in Winterfell, but it doesn't make her feel any better.

There's a knock at the door. When it opens, she sees Cersei's face appear in the reflection of the mirror. With a deep breath, Rose rises to her feet and turns toward her.

"Forgive me," Cersei says, tersely. "I was searching for your sister."

"She went to the privy, Your Grace."

She nods, waiting until the guard has shut the door behind them. Then, she approaches Rose with the same, tense smile, scrutinising her. "Such a pretty face," she concludes. Reaching out, her cold hand brushes against Rose's cheek. "Perhaps when this is all over, we can find a nobleman worthy of your beauty."

"I'd like that." Rose forces herself to look pleased, but she can't help the surge of emotions, weighing down on in her chest. "Father always spoke of matching his daughters with someone courageous and kind." She chuckles, humourlessly. "It's funny. I'm a woman now, and yet marriage is the last thing on my mind. All I can think about is Sansa and Arya and how I want them to be safe and—" she pauses, suddenly aware of her company. "I'm sorry."

Cersei hesitates. She watches a single tear roll down Rose's cheek. "It's alright to be upset. To be so far from home, then to discover your father is a traitor must be a tremendous blow." There's an insincerity to her tone that sends chills down Rose's spine. "I _can_ promise you that as long as my flesh and blood resides on the throne, your sisters will be safe. Under my care, under Joffrey's."

Rose feigns relief. "Thank you, Your Grace. If it's alright, I think I'll rest here until the hearing."

Cersei nods. "Of course." She turns on her heel and heads for the door, but looks back over her shoulder to say, "chin up."

Rose waits until the door is shut before scowling, rage simmering through her veins. Everything false about the Lannisters reflects in that woman. As long as she lives and breathes, Rose could never trust anyone so feigned. In that moment, any and all reassurance she had felt disappeared, and was replaced with a heavy sense of dread.

 _To all the gods in all the heavens, please help my father. Please, let them be merciful. And, please, take us home._

* * *

The bell tolls, booming amongst the voices of the crowd.

Some are already shouting obscenities, others standing on their tiptoes to catch a glimpse of the royal court. Joffrey, and Cersei, and Sansa, and Littlefinger, and Varys, and the Hound . . . she doesn't want to process all their faces. Instead, Rose keeps her hand tight around Sansa's, her entire body burning in anticipation.

The roars of the crowd grew louder. She turns, wondering why, and sees two guards hauling her father out of the Keep. He looks awful, like he hasn't bathed in days, his hair a tatted mess, tripping and stumbling on his wounded leg.

Then, the knights are leading him through the crowd. Rose holds her breath as their voices curse him, some stretching out their hands to grab at him, but none of them getting close enough to touch him.

He's hauled up the stairs to the podium. As he passes, Ned catches sight of his daughters standing there, hand in hand. Sansa is beaming at him. Rose tries to keep the fear from her face. He must have seen it anyway, because he squints in the sun's glare and gives her a single, what is supposed to be reassuring, nod.

When he's on the podium, the knights swivel him around to face the roaring subjects, then step aside. The crowd falls into an eerie hush, leaning forward as Ned opens his mouth to speak. "I am Eddard Stark. Lord of Winterfell, and Hand of the King."

His voice shakes, terribly. Suddenly, he looks toward his daughters, his eyes pleading. Rose feels tears burn in her eyes, but Sansa gives him a nod.

"I come before you to confess my treason in the sight of gods and men. I betrayed the faith of my king and the trust of my friend, Robert. I swore to protect and defend his children, but before his blood was cold I plotted to murder his son . . . and seize the throne for myself."

 _It's all wrong. It all sounds wrong. This isn't him, it can't be._

The crowd starts to bellow again. Suddenly, a rock flies out and strikes Ned, directly in the head. Rose lets out a strangled cry. He staggers backwards, but it caught by the Hound, who eases him forward again. Blood streams from the gash down his face.

"Let the High Septon, and Baelor the Blessed bear witness to what I say," he continues, shakily. "Joffrey Baratheon is the one true heir to the Iron Throne, by the grace of all his gods, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."

Rose feels sick. Sansa gasps when the crowd continue to mutter, angrily.

Maester Pycelle steps forward, his hands raised, his soft voice carrying out, "As we sin, so do we suffer. This man has confessed his crimes in sight of gods and men. The gods are just, but beloved Baelor taught us that they can also be merciful." He turns, slow in his old age, to Joffrey. "What is to be done with this traitor, Your Grace?"

Again, the crowd roars, but the King raises his hand, a bemused smile on his face. They fall silent, awaiting his verdict. "My mother wishes me to let Lord Eddard join the Night's Watch," he declares. "Stripped of all titles and powers, he would serve the realm in permanent exile." He looks to the Stark girls, almost fondly. "And my Lady Sansa has begged mercy for her father."

Sansa smiles back at him. For a moment, Rose feels a gush of relief.

Then, he says, "But they have the soft hearts of women. So long as I am your king, treason shall never go unpunished. Ser Ilyn, bring me his hand."

The world turns to chaos. Rose can no longer feel the ground beneath her feet, nor hear the roars of the crowd. She is vaguely aware of the movement around her. Lord Varys comes rushing over, his arms waving in the air. Cersei grips onto her son, whispering frantically in his ear, but Joffrey just shakes his head. Sansa screams in protest, one of the guards wrapping his arms around her, preventing her from moving.

Two knights force her father to her knees. Finally, she springs to action.

Her legs moving on their own accord, she lurches forward from the podium. Littlefinger tries to grab onto her, but she slips out of his grasp, past the King and Cersei. For one wild moment, when Ned turns to look at her, she thinks she'll reach him.

Then, an arm coated in heavy armour stops her from going any further. She doesn't know where he's come from, but the Hound holds her back. He's saying something to her, telling her to stop struggling or to look away, but she cannot hear him over the blood roaring in her ears. Rose shrieks at the top of her lungs, kicking out and fighting with everything she has.

The sight of Ser Ilyn drawing his silver sword makes her extremely dizzy. She goes slack in the Hound's arms, frightened she will vomit all over the podium. _No, no, stop, please, gods, let this stop_.

All she can do now is scream, the hot tears pouring down her cheeks making it difficult to see. She can hear Sansa's cries in the distance, but they seem to come from miles away. _This isn't happening, this is not happening, don't do this, please_.

She's so close to the scene, that she can hear her father whisper his final prayers, draw his final breaths. "I love you!" she's screeching, unsure if he can hear her. "I love you, father! Father, I love you!"

Ilyn balances the sword over his neck. He raises it and swings. Rose watches her father's head leave his shoulders in a neat, single blow. The words die on her lips.

* * *

 **A/N:** I didn't realise how emotional writing this episode would make me! I don't normally leave notes at the end of a chapter, but I'd like to say this—as this is one of my favourite episodes in the entire franchise, I really hope I did it justice. I wanted to make it all parts horrific and chaotic, as it is in the show. For me, this episode is the match that lights the flame for the entire franchise, and it will have a profound impact on Rose's life from this point onwards. Please keep reading and leaving reviews!


	10. Fire and Blood

**A/N:** mild violence, explicit sexual content.

* * *

 **Fire and Blood**

"If your gods are real, if they're just, why is the world so full of injustice?"

* * *

Rose opens her eyes.

The Hound is still holding onto her, but his grip has slackened. The sword is covered in blood. Her father's corpse lies on the podium at a strange angle. Ser Ilyn leans down to pick up his dismembered head, lifting it up high, for all to see. Rose watches the blood flow from it, staining the wood beneath.

Blackness creeps in to her vision, but she pushes against it, willing herself to stay awake. She doesn't want to look behind her to see Sansa. She keeps her eyes forward, the tears stopping, her body numb. The roars from the crowd turn from obscenities to delirious cheers.

"We'll go home now," someone was whispering. "We'll go home." It's her voice, but she can't feel the words leaving her lips. _Gods, in all your heavens, in every heaven there is, take me home. Please, send us home._

* * *

The days pass in almost complete silence. Sansa doesn't spend a second alone in her own chambers, instead sleeping in Rose's room, curled up next to her. They waste afternoons under the covers, avoiding everyone, refusing to eat.

Rose finds moments of solitude on the balcony, leaning against the parapet and allowing the summer air to wash over her. She looks up at the clear blueness of the sky, trying to imagine her father is up there, in a heaven somewhere, safe and happy. It's difficult, now, to imagine that such a place exists. That any heaven could exist.

The news that Robb Stark had taken Jaime Lannister as prisoner during their battle against the Lannister army travelled quickly, that 2000 Northern men had perished just to put him in iron. A part of Rose felt strangely safer in King's Landing, away from the fighting, but knew that any home that shelters Joffrey Baratheon can never be safe. Not for a Stark.

Rose wakes up one morning to find Sansa up and washed. She sits in front of the mirror, weaving pearls into her hair, which is fashioned in a similar style to Cersei's. She says nothing when Rose sits up in bed to look at her. Instead, she sets her brush down and wordlessly heads out of the room.

* * *

"It hurts to sleep. It hurts to eat. Sometimes, it hurts to breathe. Every time I close my eyes, I see his sword dripping with father's blood." Her chin quivers. "I think about my mother and how heartbroken she must be. And my brothers. Jon, Theon. And Arya, wherever she may be. I wanted to protect him so badly, and—"

Rose trails off, her face crumpling, sobbing for the first time in days. They rack her chest, making her entire body tremble. She can feel Alastair behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, kissing her hair. "None of this is your fault," he whispers, softly. "You must know that."

Rose wipes at her tears. "I feel like I've lost a part of myself."

"A part of you left when he died." His fingers play with her braid. "Then, perhaps a part of him stayed with you, too."

She nods, sniffling. "I hope so. I never want to forget how much he loved us."

Alastair hums into her hair, rocking her back and forth. She looks out at the sun, which seems ready to set in the early evening. It feels good to have him hold her like this, with no other sound but the birdsong, the warmth in the air embracing them both.

His lips plant a single kiss against her exposed neck. Suddenly, a strong, gushing wave ripples through her body. Twisting in his arms, she tugs on his collar and forcefully brings his mouth against hers. He pushes against her shoulders, gently. "Rose."

"Distract me," she begs, her breath hitching. "Please."

"Not when you're feeling like this."

"Please." Rose leans her head against his. She runs her hand over the back of his neck, trying to pull him closer. "I want to feel good for a little while."

A desperation like nothing she has ever felt overtakes her. Reluctantly, he kisses her back, his hands hovering, awkwardly. Taking control, she pushes him, closer to the table and the chairs made of cherry oak.

When he falls backwards into one of the chairs, she takes the opportunity to mount his lap, grinding slowly against him. "Rose," he protests into her lips, but he continues to kiss them, embracing the sudden heat.

"Touch me," she pleads.

When he doesn't, she grabs one of his hand and slides it up her skirt, pressing it against her arse cheek. The other, she guides to her breast, kneading with it, releasing a long moan. That gives him the encouragement she needs. He lets her unbuckle his belt, releasing his member from his trousers.

Slowly, he sinks into her. When they mould together, all memory of the past week seeps from their heads. Rose lets out a loud cry as he buries, deep inside of her, riding him with a steady, aching rhythm. She grips onto the back of the chair to support herself. Alastair's hands find her waist, guiding her, his face buried between her breasts, which softly jounce on either side of his face. An animalistic desire takes over him.

Suddenly, he lifts her up, still inside of her, and places her none-so-gently down on the table, her back against the wood. Then, gripping her thighs, he pounds into her, a low whining sound breathing through her lips. She raises her hands above her head, clawing at the edge of the table, closing her eyes and allowing the moment to help her disappear.

* * *

Rose lays on her stomach in bed, exhausted from the evening's activities. She buries her nose in a book, but the words on the paper look jumbled and make no sense.

Finally, the door creaks open. In walks Sansa, dressed in her lilac gown, her flaming hair perfect as ever. Except, now, she has a bruise blossoming on her face, and her lip bleeds at the side.

Rose swallows. She watches her sister shut the door. Then, she walks toward the bed, a hollow look on her face. Rose shuts her book and sits up in bed. Unsure what to say, she wordlessly opens up her arms. Sansa stares back at her. For a second, Rose thinks she won't except her embrace.

Then, without warning, she bursts into tears and falls into her arms, sobbing with intensity Rose has never seen before. She rocks her, gently, whispering reassurances into her hair, the way Alastair had done for her.

This is to be their life now. A constant cycle of pain, of comforting one another, and repeating the next day. In her head, Rose makes a silent vow. Her sister's pain, her father's death, will be returned, tenfold.

Someday.

* * *

 **A/N** : season one is officially finished! I'm happy that I was able to upload a chapter a day, but now, there will be a short break where I'll make the finishing touches to season two (which I literally just finished writing today).

A few warnings before we enter the new season. First of all, Rose's story takes some pretty dark turns. It's not for the faint of heart, so please, don't read unless you're comfortable with it! Also, plotlines will be changed a little to adjust to Rose's story, so if you don't like that, don't read.

I'm super excited about where this is heading, and I hope you can be too! One season down, seven more to go!


	11. The North Remembers

**A/N:** Season Two! I'm super excited, but super nervous about these next ten episodes. I've realised that, as I've been writing, they've been getting longer, but the first few will still be pretty short. So, once we get deeper into the story, you can expect longer chapters.

As I said at the end of last season, Rose's journey takes some dark twists. Plotlines will be altered and changed to fit her story, so don't read if that doesn't interest you. Keep leaving reviews and suggestions—I love hearing them!

Right, then . . . let's see what sort of trouble the Rose of Winterfell gets herself into this season.

* * *

 **The North Remembers**

"You want to lead one day? Then learn how to follow."

* * *

The heat is blistering today.

Rose looks up at the sun, squinting to see the clearness of the sky. From the battlements, she can hear the Hound's sword clanging against his opponent's, but his consistent winning streak has started to bore her.

She jumps when she hears his shield clattering to the ground. The Hound lifts his club and takes the killing strike, sending his opponent tripping over the wall, plunging from the battlements. He lands in the courtyard with a sickening thud, blood starting to pool around his body.

Joffrey chuckles, getting to his feet to peer over the battlements. Rose has to sit on her hands to stop herself from lurching forward and giving him a well-deserved push.

"Well struck," he muses. "Well struck, dog!"

The Hound removes his helm, revealing his scarred face bearing its usual sombre expression.

Joffrey turns back to Sansa. "Did you like that?"

"It was well struck, Your Grace," she replies.

"I already said it was well struck."

Sansa blinks, remaining impassive. "Yes, Your Grace."

Joffrey scowls at her, then his focus turns to Rose, his lips twisting into a cruel smirk. "And you, My Lady?" he drawls, in a suggestive tone. "Does all this fighting . . . _excite_ you?"

"Perhaps if someone else won for a change, it would be more thrilling, Your Grace," she says, sharper than she intended.

Joffrey tenses. Rose holds her breath, anxious. He opens his mouth to respond, but then closes it, like a goldfish, and turns back to the battlements. "Who's next?"

"Lothor Brune, freerider in the service of Lord Baelish." There is a small ripple of applause as the knight makes his way onto the battlements with an axe, and bows his head to the King. The announcer extends his arm to the opposite side. "Ser Dontos the Red of House Hollard."

Silence.

"Ser Dontos the Red of House Hollard!" the announcer repeats, louder this time.

"Here I am," comes a slurring voice. "Here I am."

Dontos staggers down the steps, clearly unaware he is on the wrong side of the battlements, attempting to fix his helmet. He drops it, where it clatters and rolls on the stones. Lurching forward to pick it up, he places it, firmly on his head, trying to stand straight. "Sorry, Your Grace. My deepest apologies."

"Are you drunk?" Joffrey snaps.

"No. Uh, no, Your Grace. I had—I had two cups of wine."

"Two cups? That's not much at all." With a devilish grin, Joffrey gestures to the wine at his table. "Please, have another cup."

Dontos frowns. "Are you sure, Your Grace?"

"Yes! To celebrate my name day. Have two, have as much as you like."

The foolish knight bows. "I would be honoured, Your Grace."

Joffrey tilts his head. "Ser Meryn, help Ser Dontos celebrate my name day. See that he drinks his fill."

Dread filling her to the core, Rose watches helplessly as two Kingsguards grab Dontos and drag him away from the podium, forcing him to his knees with a crack. While they keep him down, Ser Meryn grips his hair, pulls his head back and forces a funnel into his protesting mouth, another knight beginning to pour the wine down it. Rose looks away when Dontos begins to gurgle and struggle. Joffrey, on the other hand, sits down, bemused.

"You can't!"

"What did you say?" Joffrey hisses, eyeing Sansa. "Did you say I can't?"

Sansa looks, desperately to Rose, who looks equally lost for words. "I only meant . . . it would be bad luck to kill a man on your name day," she stammers.

"What kind of stupid peasant's superstition—?"

"The girl is right," comes the Hound's gruff voice. Whilst all this was happening, he'd somehow snuck his way back onto the King's side of the battlements. "What a man sows on his name day, he reaps all year."

Joffrey sighs, irritated. "Take him away," he orders. "I'll have him killed tomorrow, the fool."

Ser Meryn drops the funnel and releases him. Dontos lurches forward, on his hands and knees, as a mess of vomit and blood pours out of his mouth. Rose feels nauseous just looking at him.

"He is," Sansa exclaims, suddenly. "A fool—you're so clever to see it."

Rose nods, catching on. "You ought to dress him in motley and make him clown for you."

"He'll make a much better fool than a knight," Sansa adds. "He doesn't deserve the mercy of a quick death."

Joffrey looks at the girls in turn, thinking. "Did you hear My Lady, Ser Dontos?" he calls, as the man is pulled to his feet. He rises, speaking loud enough for the crowd to hear. "From this day, you'll be my new fool!"

"Thank you, Your Grace." He bows, still drunkenly. "And you, My Lady, thank you."

Rose and Sansa exchange a relieved, but small smile as he is dragged away.

"Beloved nephew."

All heads swivel to where the sound of the Imp's voice comes from. He crosses the battlements, dressed in shining golden armour—it suits him, strangely—with a man Rose recognises as Bronn, his bodyguard, trailing behind him. Following them were more knights in their glinting armour.

"We looked for you on the battlefield," Tyrion calls, a mocking grin on his face as he approaches the sheltered podium. "You were nowhere to be found."

Joffrey slumps down in his seat. "I've been here, ruling the kingdoms."

"What a fine job you've done." Tyrion pours himself a goblet of wine.

Rose can't help but stare. It's the first time she's seen him, and now she truly knows all the rumours are false. He's handsome, but not in the conventional sense, like his brother. And he hasn't a beard, nor eyes of two different colours. His face is kinder than the stories say.

He beams when he catches sight of Princess Myrcella. "Look at you." He leans forward and kisses her cheek. "More beautiful than ever. And you!" he turns to Tommen. "You, you're going to be bigger than the Hound, but much better looking." He chuckles, looking to Ser Sandor, who remains stony. "This one doesn't like me."

Bronn grins, wryly. "Can't imagine why."

"We heard you were dead," Joffrey grunts.

Myrcella smiles. "I'm glad you're not dead."

"Me too, dear." Tyrion takes a large swig of his wine. "Death is so boring, especially now with so much excitement in the world." His eyes finally fall upon the Stark girls, who he seems to have avoided until now. For the first time since he arrived, he looks genuinely sad. "Lady Rose, Lady Sansa, I'm sorry for your loss," he says, bowing his head.

"Loss?" Joffrey repeats, incredulously. "Their father was a confessed traitor!"

"But still their father," Tyrion snaps. "Surely having so recently lost your own beloved father, you can sympathise."

Joffrey turns, looking to Sansa expectantly. When she remains silent, Rose plasters on a convincing smile. "It's alright, My Lord," she says, her voice light as air. "Our father was a traitor, like our mother and brother. Isn't that right, Sansa?"

Sansa nods, gingerly. "Yes. I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey."

Tyrion looks baffled. "Of course, you are," he eventually says. Then, he finishes his wine and puts the cup down on the table. "Well, enjoy your name day, Your Grace. Wish I could stay and celebrate, but there is work to be done."

He passes the podium and heads for the door, his troops following. Joffrey stands, his brow furrowed. "What work? Why are you here?" he asks, but doesn't receive an answer.

* * *

"In Tywin's absence, he's Hand of the King."

"And what about Robb?"

"As far as I'm aware, the North has seceded from the Seven Kingdoms and declared him King," Littlefinger sighs. "Now, a new war is emerging, what with Robert's brothers challenging Joffrey's claim to the throne."

Rose frowns. "On what grounds?"

He gives her a sideways glance. "There are some things you're safer _not_ knowing, My Lady."

Rose nods, reluctantly. "Have you heard from Jon? Or Arya?"

"Not yet, I'm afraid."

She bites down on her lower lip as they continue down the hallway. "My brother is slaughtering Lannister men left, right and centre, and now he has Jaime in iron. At some point, Joffrey will have to give him what he wants."

Littlefinger arches his brow. "I imagine what he _wants_ is the North's independence, and for you and your sisters to return, safely to Winterfell."

"Sansa would like that too," she whispers. "She doesn't say it, but I know she does."

"And what of you?" Littlefinger abruptly stops, stepping in front of her, studying her. "Would you so happily return to the North?"

Rose opens her mouth to say yes, but stops herself. She thinks. "I'd happily leave the Keep," she decides. "Where I would go, I'm not certain. It seems there's not a safe place in Westeros anymore."

He nods. Something over her shoulder catches his eye, and he breaks out in a mischievous smile. "Don't look so glum. You have friends here, after all."

Rose frowns. Glancing behind her, she sees the handsome Ser Alastair approaching, his helm tucked under his arm. Turning back to Littlefinger, she rolls her eyes at him, pointedly, making him chuckle.

The knight stops at Rose's side. "Lord Baelish."

"Ser Alastair." Littlefinger bows his head a little, then turns and stalks off.

Alastair frowns after him. "What did he want?"

"He's keeping me informed on the discussions of the council," she explains.

"Is he allowed to do such a thing?"

Rose shrugs. "Something tells me he doesn't particularly care for rules."


	12. The Night Lands

**The Night Lands**

"You know, you shouldn't insult people that are bigger than you are."

* * *

Rose snuggles closer to Alastair, her eyes on the canopy.

"I wish we could stay like this all day," she murmurs. The sheets are cool and crisp against her naked body, the summer breeze blowing stronger and hotter through the window.

Alastair hums in agreement. "As do I. However, if people start to notice my absence, the King will have my head. Especially if he learns about this." His hand grazes, lightly down her body.

Rose tilts her head up to look at him. "That won't happen. We've been so careful."

"I know." Alastair grins and kisses her forehead. "Have I succeeded in taking your mind off your lover back home?"

A sharp pain stabs through Rose's chest, but she tries to hide in from her face. She cups his cheek in her hand. "You've done a fine job," she insists. He kisses her once, then she rests her head against his chest. "I worry about him sometimes," she admits, with a sigh. "About what he's up to, whether he's still at my brother's side. But, I know he can take care of himself."

There's a pause. "At Joffrey's name day, you said your mother and brother were traitors."

Rose frowns. "I said whatever the King wanted to hear. It doesn't mean I believe it." He falls silent. She props herself up on her elbow, looking down at him. "This, all of this, started when Joffrey cut off my father's head. None of this would be happening if it weren't for that mistake."

"I know, Rose." He huffs out an exasperated breath. "I don't believe your brother is in the wrong for seeking vengeance, but . . . if it were me, if you were _my_ sister," he twirls her hair around his finger, "my first priority would be making sure you were safe. Not raising my armies, carelessly spilling Lannister blood for the sake of a House feud."

Rose scoffs, angrily. "A feud that started when a _Lannister_ crippled my baby brother," she protests, straightening into a sitting position. "It sounds like you're defending them."

"I'm not defen—I only meant—"

"It's fine." She turns her head, simmering with rage.

Alastair chuckles at the pout on her face. He runs a hand up and down her back. "I only meant that your life is more important than bloodshed or vengeance," he explains, gently.

Rose softens a little. "Thank you." Wanting to forget that she lost her temper, she lies back down at his side, letting him wrap an arm around her. She traces a small pattern on his bare chest. "I hear the Dothraki warlord is dead. What was his name? Khal . . . something or other."

"Khal Drogo," Alastair murmurs. "The Great Khal, they called him. His Khaleesi lost her unborn son, too."

Rose flinches. "That's awful."

Alastair nods. He kisses her head, then flings off the covers and heads for the table. She watches as he pours himself a cup of wine. Sitting close to the balcony is Hope, her head rested atop of her paws, her beady eyes shimmering in the breeze.

Desperate to erase the mental image of a woman, not much older than her, losing her child, Rose asks, "Have you ever been to Essos? To Vaes Dothrak?"

He grins. "It's no place for a Southern knight, My Lady. They're bred to be savages, to be killers. Dothraki boys learn to shoot bows from horseback when they're only four years old." He gulps down the rest of his wine, sets it on the table, and makes his way back towards the bed. "When they're old enough to raid villages, they prey on the women and take them as their slaves."

Rose gapes. "They rape them?"

Alastair nods, grimly. He kneels on the bed, making his way towards her. "They mount them, as a dog would mount a bitch."

She grins when he pulls the covers off her, catching a glimpse of his hardness. He grabs her by the hips, making her squeal in delight, and flips her onto her stomach. Then, he hoists her up, so she's balanced on all fours. "It's not customary to look a woman in the eye as you take her," he whispers, rubbing his shaft against her arse.

Rose bites down on her lip, giggling. "Maybe I should marry a warlord."

Alastair laughs. He wets his fingers, running them along her entrance, then eases himself inside of her. Rose grips onto the pillow as he holds, tightly onto her hips, pushing himself into her with hard, dominant thrusts. She moans at the sound of flesh slapping against flesh. It reminds her of being in the Godswood with Theon, all those months ago.

A small part of her wishes the thought had never crossed her mind.

* * *

Rose shuts the door of the privy behind her, then pads down the hallway. She can't remember the last time the Keep was this quiet, or cold with the sun down and the windows ajar. It's a nice change from the stifling heat.

She turns the corner, heading for her chambers, when she collides with something tall and metallic. A gasp escapes her, but she lets out a breath of relief when she sees it's only the Hound. "Pardon me, Ser."

"Not Ser," he grunts.

Rose's eyes narrow. "Would you rather that or 'dog'?"

The Hound's lips twist up into a sneer. "That smart mouth of yours will get you in trouble one day." He studies her, standing in her flimsy nightdress, her arms wrapped around herself. "If not, it'll be that knight you've been fucking."

Rose flinches. "I don't know what you're—"

"Don't bother. Who you choose to share your bed with is of no interest to me," he insists, darkly. "If the King found out—"

Rose's jaw sets. She whips the headband from her hair, and tugs out the dagger, pointing it at him, despite his thick layer of armour. "He's not going to find out." Her voice is low, warning.

The Hound chuckles. "You draw that dagger, but do you know how to use it?"

He steps forward, so the tip of the blade is pressed against his heart. Taking her by surprise, he grabs her, twists her so her back is against his stomach, forcing her own hand upwards so the knife hovers above her throat, all in one, swift movement. "You should learn," he snarls in her ear.

Rose purses her lips. She manoeuvres herself with equal grace, ducking under his arm, out of his grip, switching the blade into her other hand, and bringing it to the side of his neck. "Benefits of fucking a knight," she hisses. "I could run you through with my eyes closed."

The Hound's face flashes in anger. He grips her wrist and slams it against the cold, stone wall. She cries out as pain ripples across her knuckles, the dagger slipping through her fingers and clattering to the floor. He steps forward, and she backs up against the wall. "Put a blade to my throat again—"

"Now, now, Clegane, that's no way to treat a Lady."

The Hound steps back, instantly. "The Lady held a knife to my throat."

"Did she, indeed?" Tyrion grins. "Go on. Go find a tree to piss on."

The Hound gives him a scowl, but reluctantly turns on his heel and disappears down the darkened hallway. Tyrion watches him leave, then studies Rose for signs of distress. She remains, her back pressed against the wall, cradling her bruising hand. "Thank you, Lord Tyrion," she murmurs, embarrassed.

He smiles, gently. "You shouldn't be wandering the halls alone at night."

Rose quirks an eyebrow. "You are."

A brief flash of amusement crosses his face. "An Imp can creep in and out of the shadows without being seen," he says, wryly. "You, however are rather tall and distinctive."

Rose can't resist a small grin. "I'm not that tall."

Tyrion leans down and picks up Rose's headband, admiring the blade hidden within it. "Where did you get the dagger?" he asks.

"A friend of mine gave it to me."

He studies the crest on the handle, a golden kraken on a blackened field. "A Greyjoy," he notes, somewhat surprised. He hands it back to Rose. "Theon, your father's ward. Rumour has it he's returned to Pyke."

Her heart skips a beat. "Are you sure?"

"Well, you can never be sure with rumours. What was left for him in Winterfell after your father died?"

Rose winces, but bites on her lip to stop the tears from coming. "Nothing, I suppose."

Tyrion's face softens as he gazes at her. She suddenly feels a swell of emotions, stemming from the throbbing pain in her hand, ending with the mention of her father. Silently begging herself not to cry, she swallows back the lump in her throat.

"I needed some fresh air," she says, quietly. "I couldn't sleep. You won't tell the King that I was lurking about?"

Tyrion gives her a look. "There are plenty of things the King needn't know." He gently bows his head. "Goodnight, Lady Rose."

"Goodnight, My Lord."

Quickly, she slides the headband back into her hair and hurries down the hallway, her mind on nothing but the dull pain in her knuckles and the Hound's snarling face.


	13. What Is Dead May Never Die

**What Is Dead May Never Die**

"Power is a curious thing. Power resides where men believe it resides. It's a trick, a shadow on the wall. And, a very small man can cast a very large shadow."

* * *

Rose picks at her food, but finds herself unable to eat a thing. Sansa, at the opposite end of the table, compliantly finishes her plate, drinking her wine with a small grimace.

"When will Joffrey and Sansa be married?" Myrcella asks, breaking the silence.

Cersei smiles. "Soon, darling. When the war is over."

Myrcella turns to Sansa, who has looked up, startled by the sound of her name. "Mother says I'll have a new gown for the ceremony," she says, cheerily, cutting into her pork. "And another for the feast. But, yours will be ivory, since you're the bride."

Sansa stares at her, speechless. Rose frowns at her from across the table, taking a much-needed sip of her wine.

"The princess just spoke to you," Cersei says, sharply.

Sansa blinks, startled again. "Pardon, Your Grace." She forces a smile. "I'm sure your dress will be beautiful, Myrcella. I'm counting the days until the fighting is done, and I can pledge my love to the King in sight of the gods." Although she smiles, her eyes start to shimmer, her bottom lip quivering.

Tommen looks up. "Is Joffrey going to kill Rose and Sansa's brother?"

Rose almost drops her fork.

"He might," Cersei says. She casts two pointed looks at both ends of the table, meeting Rose's stare with something resembling contempt. Sansa takes a large gulp of her wine, flinching at the taste. "Would you like that?"

Tommen thinks, a frown on his face. "No," he decides. "I don't think so."

Cersei nods, her composure never wavering. "Even if he does, Sansa will do her duty," she insists. "Won't you, little dove?"

Sansa says nothing.

* * *

"You did well."

"She can see right through me," Sansa mutters, furiously. "I was so _stupid_ , sitting there, not saying anything."

Rose closes the door and takes her by the shoulders. "Breathe, Sansa. You're doing the best you can." Compliantly, she takes a few deep breaths, trying to steady herself. A knock on the door makes both of them jump. "Yes?" Rose calls. A woman, foreign and beautiful with a head of dark curls, enters in a polite stance. "Who are you?"

She smiles. "I'm Shae, My Lady. Your sister's new handmaiden."

"I didn't know I needed a new handmaiden," Sansa mutters. She looks her, up and down, taking in her strange clothing. "You're not from here."

"No."

An awkward silence lingers in the air, in which Rose, and Sansa, and Shae stare at one another, waiting for someone to speak, or move, or do something. Eventually, Sansa asks, "What are you doing?"

"Waiting for you to tell me what to do."

Sansa glares. "I shouldn't have to _tell_ you to do things. You should just do them."

Rose elbows her. "Sansa. Be kind."

"It's alright, My Lady," Shae insists, tersely. "What things would you like me to do?"

Sansa shakes her head, baffled. "Change my linens, wash my clothing, scrub the floor, empty my chamber pot, brush my hair."

A thick silence lingers in the air. Rose sucks in a breath. "I should go to bed."

She heads for the door, but Sansa grips her wrist. "You're not staying?" Alarm fills her face and voice.

"No, not tonight." Rose rubs her, comfortingly on the arm. "As much as I'd like to, we can't spend every minute at each other's side." Giving her a reassuring smile, she leans over and kisses her cheek. "Goodnight."

Without waiting for a response, she hurries out of the room, letting out a sigh of relief as the door closes behind her.

* * *

Rose lies on her bed, reading, with Hope snoring gently at her side. It's late into the night when she lifts her head a little, with a sudden snarl. Rose frowns, gently ruffling her fur, trying to pacify her. A soft knock at the door makes her jump. "Yes?"

It eases open, revealing Littlefinger, with his billowing clothes and mockingbird pin. "Forgive the intrusion, My Lady," he says, stepping into the room. "I hoped we might have a word."

Rose shuts her book and sits up. "Of course, Lord Baelish."

"Call me Petyr, please." He gives her a warm smile and perches on the end of her bed, rubbing his hands together in his lap. "I was wondering if you'd given much thought to our conversation the other day." At the frown on her face, he explains, "I asked you whether you'd be content with returning to Winterfell. You said you weren't sure where you'd like to go."

Rose sighs, sadly. "It's wishful thinking. I doubt I could ever leave King's Landing now. Not with my head, at least."

Littlefinger studies her, then leans in a little closer. "What if I told you there was a way?" he whispers. Rose blinks, confused. He takes this as a pass to continue, with a small twitch of his lips. "Your sister will be Queen someday, but you . . . right now, you're a prisoner here, in the South. A hostage. Your mother and brother are enemies of the throne, in open rebellion. I fear the moment the King's war is won, he'll have no further use of you."

Rose's eyes narrow. "You're trying to scare me, again." _It's working._

"I'm trying to help you," he insists. Littlefinger pauses to weigh his next words in his head. Cautiously, he takes her hands in his. "A marriage could ensure your safety. Should you marry someone loyal to the realm, as Sansa will wed the King, you'll be out of harm's reach."

Rose chuckles, in spite of herself. "And who will I marry?" she sighs. " _You_?"

A small smile tugs at his mouth. "I care very deeply for your mother. If there's something I can do to warrant the protection of her daughters, I shall do it."

Rose feels a surge of emotions rising in her chest. She gives his hands a squeeze. "It's kind of you to offer, Lord Baelish, but—"

"Say no more," he interrupts. "Not tonight." Slowly, he reaches out and grazes his fingers, gently down the side of her face, his thumb brushing over her lip in a way that puts her stomach in knots. He grins, as though he knows the effect it has on her. "Think on it, at least. Give me an answer when your head is clear."

Rose remains rooted to her spot. Littlefinger leans in and kisses her cheek. She can feel his beard scratching against her skin, his warm breath on her. He draws apart slowly, so their eyes are connected, the blueness of hers and the green pit of his. She can hardly hear Hope growling at her side any longer.

Then, he's risen from the bed, and swept out of the room, leaving a breeze in his wake. Rose waits until the door is shut, then she falls backwards against the pillows, staring up at the canopy.

 _Did Littlefinger just propose to me?_


	14. Garden of Bones

**A/N:** contains strong violence.

* * *

 **Garden of Bones**

"If war were arithmetic, the mathematicians would rule the world."

* * *

Joffrey points his ornate crossbow, aiming for her head.

"You're here to answer for your brother's latest treasons."

Sansa looks up, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Your Grace, whatever my traitor brother has done, I had no part," she sobs. "You know that. I beg you, please—"

"Ser Lancel, tell her of this outrage."

Behind her, the Queen's cousin, Lancel, approaches the centre of the room. "Using some vile sorcery, your brother fell on Stafford Lannister with an army of wolves," he announces, darkly. "Thousands of good men were butchered. After the slaughter, the Northmen feasted on the flesh of the slain."

Horrified murmurs fill the room, the ladies gasping in shock, the men shaking their head in disgust. Rose almost wants to laugh at how gullible they all are, but her insides are tied in knots.

Joffrey sighs, aiming his crossbow again at her weeping sister. "Killing you would send your brother a message."

"No!" Rose cries. She struggles against Alastair's grip on her arm. "No, Your Grace, kill _me_! Kill me! She's of far more use to you alive than dead. She can still be your queen. Please, _not_ her!"

Joffrey eyes her with his cruel smirk. "As much as I'd like to, there was a time when we had four Starks in hand. Now, we only have two, so, for now, my mother insists on keeping you alive." He lowers his crossbow, and Rose feels giddy with relief. "Stand."

Sansa staggers to her feet, peeking round at the faces of the court.

The King sets his crossbow aside. "I suppose, we'll have to send your brother a message some other way." Slumping down on his throne, he glances, snidely to his Kingsguard. "Meryn."

Ser Meryn struggles to keep the pleased look from his face. He approaches Sansa. For a moment, Rose is confused. But then, Alastair's grip tightens on her, and she understand why with bile rising in her throat.

"Leave her face," says Joffrey, coldly. "I like her pretty."

Meryn grabs Sansa, then slams his fist into her belly, making her double over. Rose starts to scream and struggle, pleading him to stop, certain that her vocal chords will tear out with the effort of it. Ignoring her, Meryn draws his sword and strikes the flat of the blade across the back of Sansa's thighs, sending her, with a cry, to her knees.

Rose finally manages to slip free. Her mind, racing and wild, sends her sprinting forward, toward the scene. Meryn sees her coming. Spinning around, his red, ugly face twisting in delight is the last thing she sees before it happens.

A pain, unlike anything she's felt before, explodes at the side of her face as he slams the back of his hand into it. She doesn't feel herself falling, but the cold stone scratches her, confirming she's on the floor. Stars cross her vision, blackness creeping in. Then, more pain.

He drives his boot into her ribs. A sickening scream escapes her, but it seems to come from miles away. Then another kick, this time to her face, snapping her head to one side. She feels the warmth of blood dripping down her cheek.

"Be patient, Lady Rose," comes Joffrey's taunting voice. "You'll have your turn."

Rose whimpers against the ground, her head ringing, blood dribbling from her mouth.

"Meryn, My Lady's overdressed. Unburden her." She can hear the sound of Sansa's dress ripping, followed by the court gasping in shock. "If we want Robb Stark to hear us, we're going to have to speak louder!"

Rose rolls over in time to see Ser Meryn lifting his sword one last time over a weeping Sansa.

"What is the meaning of this?"

It's the same voice that stopped the Hound in the night. It comes from behind the crowd, and they part to reveal Lord Tyrion making his way into the throne room, with Bronn following him. His eyes blow wide when he catches sight of Sansa, half-naked, and Rose, bleeding on the ground.

"What kind of knight beats a helpless girl?" he demands.

"The kind who serves his king, Imp," Meryn spits.

Bronn chuckles. "Careful, now. We don't want to get blood all over you pretty white cloak."

He stops next to Rose. Before she knows what's happening, he grabs her by her upper arms and hauls her to her feet, her back screaming in protest. Her legs give way beneath her, but his firm hold keeps her from falling to the ground again.

"Someone get the girl something to cover herself with," Tyrion orders. The Hound tears his own white cloak from his back, and drapes it over Sansa's exposed body. Tyrion rounds on the King. "She's to be your queen! Have you no regard for her honour?"

"I'm punishing her!"

"For what crimes? She does not fight her brother's battles, you half-wit."

"You can't talk to me like that," Joffrey shouts. "The king can do as he likes!"

Turning his back, he sits down on the throne, pouting like a petulant child. Tyrion walks up the stone steps toward him. "The Mad King did as he liked. Has your uncle Jaime ever told you what happened to him?"

Ser Meryn draws his sword again. "No one threatens His Grace in the presence of the Kingsguard," he snarls.

Tyrion rolls his eyes. "I'm not threatening the King, Ser, I am educating my nephew. Bronn, the next time Ser Meryn speaks, kill him." He turns, scowling. " _That_ was a threat. See the difference?"

Throwing Joffrey one last disgusted look, Lord Tyrion walks back down the steps towards her sister, who is sat in the middle of the room, tears streaming, silently from her eyes. He approaches her cautiously, like a hunter might approach a deer. Taking everyone by surprise, he offers his hand.

Sansa hesitates, but takes it, causing the room to gasp. Joffrey rises from the throne, furious. But, he says nothing as Tyrion leads her towards the doors.

Rose remains rooted to the spot. Bronn takes her arm and wraps it around his shoulder, locking his around her waist for support. She mouths her thank you, but her throat is too restricted to make the words come out. _Don't cry. Not yet. Wait until they can't see you._

Sansa glances back behind her to make sure her sister is following, along with their horde of ladies.

"I apologise for my nephew's behaviour," Tyrion was saying. "Tell me the truth. Do you want an end to this engagement?"

"I am loyal to King Joffrey," Sansa replies, hollowly. "My one true love."

The ladies hustle her out of the room, leaving Tyrion standing, befuddled. "Lady Stark," he muses. "You may survive us yet."

He turns, his focus shifting to Rose. His jaw sets at the sight of her injuries.

"I'll take her to the infirmary," Bronn insists.

Tyrion nods, then heads for the hallway.

"Lord Tyrion," Rose calls after him, making him turn. "Thank you."

He bows his head, stoically, then disappears. Someone else places a hand on her arm, and she jumps. Breathing a sigh of relief, she sees it's only Alastair, who looks down at her with a mixture of pain and regret.

Then she can't help herself, beginning to shake with sobs.

* * *

Rose reclines on the bed, her limbs aching with every slight movement. Maester Pycelle gave her milk of the poppy to ease the pain, but it doesn't seem to be taking the desired effect. She's grateful when the door to the infirmary opens and Ser Alastair steps inside.

"How are you feeling?" he asks.

She groans, sitting up as best she can. "Like a horse ran me down. Where's Sansa?"

"Resting." Alastair perches at her bedside, running a hand over her hair. "She's shocked, but not badly hurt."

Rose purses her lips. "I need to see her," she croaks.

"You _need_ to get some sleep." He gently pushes her back down against the pillows, continuing to stroke her hair, lightly. A heavy sigh escapes him. "I'm sorry. For not intervening."

Rose shakes her head. "You couldn't have done. People are already getting suspicious."

"I know." He sighs again.

She bites down on her bottom lip, feeling the dread of her next words in the air. "We said we'd only do this so long as it didn't put us in danger."

Alastair nods. "Yes, we did."

"Everything that's happened between us—"

"I know it's over." His fingers run through her hair, then goes to her face, tracing her bottom lip, pulling it out of her teeth. "You don't have to say anything else," he whispers. A small smile tugs at his mouth. "Did I ever tell you I was born in Flea Bottom? High-born ladies, like yourself, have looked down on me my entire life. I hated them all for it. But, then I met you." He shakes his head, musing. "You're not like other ladies. You're kind and brave. If this _were_ to continue, I could be in real danger of . . . of falling in love with you."

Alastair's soft touch grazes against her cheek, his face aching. Rose sucks in a trembling breath. "But, something tells me your heart belongs with another," he murmurs. "I'll always be here. Even if it's not to hold you, or share your bed." Cradling her face in his hands, he looks her, steadily in the eye. "I'll protect you when I can. I'll defend you and your sister's honour. You will always have a friend in me, Lady Rose."

Tears spills down her cheeks. He leans over and kisses her forehead, but she can see the shimmer in his eyes, too. For the first time since she left Winterfell, she feels completely and utterly alone.


	15. The Ghost of Harrenhal

**A/N:** time for a game changer.

* * *

 **The Ghost of Harrenhal**

"You may cover it up and deny it, but you have a gentle heart. You would not only be respected and feared, you would be loved. Someone who can rule and should rule. Centuries come and go without a person like that coming into the world. There are times when I look at you, and I still can't believe you're real."

* * *

Rose sits down at the table, fidgeting with her hands in her lap.

Lord Varys studies her, then says, "We've heard news that your brother sent Theon Greyjoy back to the Iron Islands to negotiate an alliance with his father, Lord Balon. Unfortunately, no one has heard from him since he landed in Lordsport."

Rose blinks. "I'm sorry, Lord Varys, I don't understand."

"At first, we suspected the prince was killed upon his arrival. However, new information suggests that he has taken a crew to Torrhen's Square, which is now under dreadful siege."

Her heart begins to hammer in her chest. She gapes, looking from Varys to Lord Tyrion, at their concerned, somewhat sympathetic faces. "No, no, you must be mistaken," she whispers. "Theon is loyal to the North. He is . . . he _was_ my father's ward—"

"Forgive me, My Lady," Tyrion interrupts. "But isn't ward a courteous term for prisoner?"

Rose stares at him. She gets to her feet, needing to feel the ground beneath them, and paces toward the window. The light of the setting sun glares through it. "Why are you telling me this?" she asks, quietly.

"A logical explanation for the Ironborn attacking Torrhen's Square is that your little brother will send his armies," Tyrion says. "Leaving Winterfell for the taking."

She spins around, alarmed. "You have to stop them. Robb left Bran in charge of the North. The Ironborn . . ." furious tears spring to her eyes, "they'll _kill_ him. Rickon, too."

Tyrion sighs. "We're aware."

"Lord Tywin was most displeased when he discovered the King had your father executed," Varys explains, softly. "Even more so when Arya managed to slip through our fingers, the crafty little thing." He sucks in a bracing breath. "If more Starks were to die, his rage would be spectacular. There's no telling what he'd do."

Tyrion throws him a look. When he turns back to Rose, his eyes are steely. "We're sending you back to Winterfell," he says. "You will retrieve your brothers and bring them back to King's Landing, out of the Ironborn's reach."

Rose frowns. "Why me?"

He shrugs. "Who better to convince the Warden of the North than his big sister?"

"And you trust that I'll return?"

Tyrion sighs, agitated. "We trust that Sansa means the world to you, therefore we trust that you won't abandon her, yes."

Rose searches her mind, thinking it over. "If Theon's in Torrhen's Square, then he's several steps ahead of me already," she points out. "Besides, I—I'm not well enough to travel. Your nephew saw to that."

Tyrion hangs his head. Rose still bears the scars of that day in the throne room: a nasty-looking bruise flowering across her cheek, her lip split, her ribs bandaged. Each movement is a sore reminder of what happened to her. She flinches now, with the memory of it.

"What _does_ the King think of all this?" she asks.

Tyrion chuckles, humourlessly. "If he bothered to turn up to a council meeting from time to time, perhaps he'd have a say in the matter."

"Lord Tywin is preoccupied winning the war and has no men to spare, thanks to your brother's many victories." Lord Varys grimaces. "We've run out of options. And, frankly, we're about to run out of time."

Rose sighs, but can think of no other argument in her favour. The thought of Theon rallying his own armies to strike down the home they shared sends a flood of pain through her chest. _How can he do this? Why is he doing this?_ It leaves her with a bubbling rage, which swarms in the pit of her belly.

"You'll take the Kingsroad North with a small horde of men," Tyrion says, when she doesn't respond. "Time may not be on your side, but you'll have the element of surprise. All you have to do is convince your brothers to come back to King's Landing, where I promise you, they will be safe."

"What about when the fighting is done?" Rose demands, coldly. She folds her arms over her chest. "Don't pretend like you're doing this for our _safety_. You want all the Starks under one roof so you can trade them off at any opportunity."

Tyrion pauses. "We won't force you, Lady Rose. If you'd rather leave your brothers to the Ironborn, then so be it." He watches her ponder this. "If you leave now, and you don't stop for anything, you'll be there the week." Rose scoffs, disbelievingly. He leans forward in his seat, catching her gaze. "You should at least _try_. I suggest you say yes before the King finds out our intentions to send you away."

Rose stares back at him. In his eyes, there is no insincerity, unlike his sister, Cersei. He holds her gaze with a steadiness, silently willing her to trust him. Her mind is cast to Theon, to her brothers, unprotected in Winterfell. Finally, she squares her shoulders in resolve, and gives a single nod.

* * *

The night arrives sooner than Rose would have liked.

She wraps her cloak tighter around herself, stepping into the courtyard. A series of knights in their golden armour await her, mounting their horses. Lord Tyrion and Lord Varys stand by, watching her, anxiously. And there's Sansa, standing near the Hound, and Ser Alastair, as glum as anything.

Rose walks straight up to her, disregarding the rest.

"Please," Sansa whispers, clutching her hands. "Don't leave me here."

"I will return," Rose promises. "With our brothers. And we'll all be together again, like old times." She takes her sister's face in her hands. "Do you trust me?"

Sansa blinks, tears sliding down her cheeks, but nods all the same.

Rose wipes at her damp face, forcing a smile. "I love you."

"I love you, too," Sansa whispers.

Rose pulls her into a hug, hoping no one can hear the sound of her soft sobs. Over her shoulder, she catches the Hound's eye, who stares back at her with an unreadable expression. But she knows what he's thinking—there's a heavy chance the Stark girls will never see one another again. The thought catches Rose in her throat.

When she draws apart, she doesn't spare another glance. Instead, she turns to Alastair, who looks equally miserable. "Take care of my sister," she whispers.

He nods, with a half-smile. "I promised, didn't I?"

Rose resists the urge to hug him too, aware of present company. She turns and walks towards her horse, a snowy-white beauty. At her heels, Hope awaits, with those wise eyes that seem to understand everything that's happening. As if knowing she needs it, she nudges her nose into Rose's hip, with a small whine. Rose gives her head a fleeting stroke.

For one wild moment, she thinks of Arya, how she managed to escape, like Lord Varys had said. Perhaps she made it back to Winterfell. _Please let her be there. Let me know that she's alright._ Rose clings to that thought as she mounts her horse.

She looks out at the small crowd. At Tyrion and Varys, then lastly to Sansa, who is clinging onto Alastair's hand. Rose waves to them, taking one last, long look. Steeling herself, she turns, her horse rearing into action, galloping with vigour out of the Red Keep with the knights and her direwolf following their trail.


	16. The Old Gods and the New

**A/N:** probably one of the longest chapters! contains strong violence, explicit sexual content.

* * *

 **The Old Gods and the New**

"One day I pray you love someone. I pray you love her so much, when you close your eyes, you see her face."

* * *

"Open the gates!"

The large, iron gates creak open, too slowly. The second they're wide enough to infiltrate, Rose gallops through, into the courtyard where a stream of people gather to see who enters Winterfell. A series of gasps ripple at the sight of her, with the Southern knights following close behind.

She searches the crowd for a familiar face. Stood near the front is a bald man, withering in his old age, dressed in grey cloaks. "Maester Luwin," she gasps. She leaps from her horse, ignoring her aching limbs, and staggers over to him.

"Lady Rose," he exclaims, scanning her. "What in the world—?"

Rose throws herself into his arms, feeling an overwhelming, but short-lived sense of relief. When she pulls apart, his eyes search hers for an explanation. "I'm sorry," she pants. "There isn't time to explain. I need to find Bran."

Luwin glances, nervously at the knights dismounting their horses. "He's in bed, asleep."

"Wake him," Rose orders, mustering her authority. "Tell him to gather whatever Northern guards remain in Winterfell and have them man the gates."

"My Lady." She turns to the knight who has spoken. His face is flushed with riding, and solemn in expression. "It's too late. They're coming."

Luwin frowns. "Who's coming?"

Rose grips onto him as the sound of a horn blowing in the distance sends the crowds in Winterfell into a frenzy. "Send a raven, as quick as you can, to Robb," she shouts, trying to be heard over the chaos. "Tell him the Ironborn are invading Winterfell. I have to find my brothers."

She doesn't wait. Slipping out of his grasp, she picks up her skirts and sprints across the courtyard, pushing her way through the crowd. She finds the nearest staircase, dashing up it, tripping and stumbling. The cold air is a strange shock from the blistering heat of King's Landing, but she pushes on.

When she gets inside, she follows the hallways to Bran's room, praying to all the gods he is in there, safe. The door is closed. She rams it open and it bangs against the wall.

He's there. Lying in bed, fast asleep. His hair is longer, and he's a lot skinnier than she remembers, but he's there.

"Bran!" she cries. Rose collapses onto his bedside, shaking him. "Bran, wake up!"

His eyes snap open, startled. It takes a moment for them to focus on her face. "Rose," he gasps.

She hauls him up, wrapping her arms around him. "Oh, thank the gods," she breathes into his shoulder, a dry sob cracking through her chest. He hugs her back with the same intensity, his hands locking around her back.

"How are you here?" he asks, trembling. "I thought—"

Rose pulls apart, holding him at arms-length. "You need to listen to me."

The door bangs open again. Rose jumps up, spinning around.

It feels like the world has stopped. He's standing in the doorway, a firm, resolute expression on his face, a burly Ironborn man standing at his side. But his gaze settles on her, first. She sees the fear, the confusion, the relief in his eyes and her heart plummets.

"Rose," he murmurs. "What are you doing here?"

"I came back to warn them," she croaks. Her voice is strange and strangled. "The Lannisters said the Ironborn were heading for Winterfell. I didn't want to believe it, but . . . it's true," she whimpers, with such intense sadness.

Theon grits his teeth. "I've taken your castle."

Rose steps closer to him. "Theon, please."

"It's Prince Theon, now," he says, sharply. He doesn't look at her, his focus, instead, on Bran. "Get up," he orders. "You have to get dressed. I've taken Winterfell. I took it, I'm occupying it. I sent men over the walls with grappling claws and ropes."

Bran frowns. "Why?"

"To take the castle."

"You went with Robb."

"And he sent me back to Pyke." Theon turns, looking out the clouded window. "I'm a Greyjoy. I can't fight for Robb and my father both." He sounds like he's trying to convince himself. "Where's Hodor?"

"I don't know," Bran grumbles.

Theon looks to his first mate. "Find the half-wit." He nods, glancing at both the Starks, then leaves the room. Theon finds himself staring at Rose for a moment, but seems to come to his senses, and turns away again. "My men are bringing your people together in the courtyard."

"Why?" Bran asks.

"So, you and I can go down and tell them how you've yielded Winterfell to me."

"I won't."

Theon's jaw sets. He takes a few dangerous steps towards Bran, but Rose instantly fills the distance between them, drawing an arm, protectively over her brother. "Yes, you will," he snaps.

"I won't," Bran repeats, calmly. "I'll never yield. We'll fight you and throw you out."

Theon sighs, exasperated. He sits down on the side of the bed, looking Bran, evenly in the eye. "The castle is mine, but these people are still yours," he explains. "You'll yield to keep them safe, to keep them alive. That's what a _good_ Lord would do." He lifts an eyebrow. "Think carefully about what you want to say."

He gets up and turns for the door.

"Theon?" Bran calls. "Did you hate us the whole time?"

A dull pain fills Rose's chest. She stares at him, waiting for his answer. Theon meets her gaze, but his emotions are unreadable. Instead, he extends his arm. "After you, My Lady."

Her legs numb but somewhat functional, she allows him to lead her out of the room, feeling his hand on the small of her back as the door shuts behind them.

* * *

Thunder claps in the darkening sky.

"I've yielded Winterfell to Theon."

"Louder," he commands. "Say Prince Theon."

Bran raises his voice, grudgingly. "I've yielded Winterfell to Prince Theon."

Theon steps forward, scanning the crowd of Northerners gathered in the courtyard, the patter of rain beginning to fall on their heads. "You all know me."

"Aye, we know you for a steaming sack of shit," comes a voice from the crowd.

"Farlen, you be silent," Bran orders.

"Listen to your little lord, Farlen," Theon snarls, advancing on him with fierce eyes. "He has more sense than you do."

"All of you should do as he commands," says Bran.

"My father has donned the ancient crown of Salt and Rock," Theon announces. "And declared himself King of the Iron Islands. He claims the North as well by right of conquest. You are all his subjects."

"Bugger that," Farlen bellows. All heads turn to where he stands, some murmuring in quiet agreement. "I serve the Starks! If you think you can hold the North with it—"

An Ironborn raises his club and slams it down on Farlen's head from behind. "Shut up!" he roars, sending the man sprawling to the ground, in the wet dirt. Gasps rise from the crowd, his wife leaning down to pick him up, tears in her eyes.

"If you serve me as loyally as you served Ned Stark, I will be as good to you as he ever was," Theon promises. "Betray me, and you will wish you hadn't."

He looks to where Luwin stands with Rose by his side, his arm wrapped around her. In front of her is Rickon, who clutches onto her hand, shaking from the cold. "Maester Luwin, send a raven to Pyke informing my father of my victory here. And one to Deepwood Motte to my sister. Inform her that she's to bring five hundred men to Winterfell."

Luwin does not move. Theon stares at him, waiting, but he remains still. Something dark strikes his features. "You are a Maester of the Citadel," he spits, closing the distance between them. Luwin's arm tightens around Rose, protectively. "Sworn to serve the Lord of Winterfell, are you not?"

"I am."

"I am the Lord of Winterfell as Bran just informed you," he snarls. "Send the ravens."

Maester Luwin stares at him, disappointed. "My Lord."

Rose feels a cold breeze when he releases her and turns to go inside. Theon's stare moves to her. She holds Rickon closer to her, feeling a lump in her throat, her hair beginning to dampen from the rain. It feels as though his eyes are burning a hole in her skull.

"My Lord Greyjoy."

Osha, her name is, she steps out of the congregation, bowing her head.

Theon smirks. "I see you've finally learned how to address your betters." He looks her, derisively, up and down. "What do you want?"

"I was brought here a captive. You were here the day I was taken."

Theon shrugs. "I'm the one who took you. What of it?"

Osha drops to her knees, her head down. "Let me serve you," she says.

"Serve me how?" Theon chuckles. "I need fighters, not kitchen sluts."

"It was Robb Stark who put me in the kitchens." She lifts her chin. "Put a spear in my hand again."

Theon frowns, bemused. "So, you can bury it in my neck?" he snaps. "Do you take me for a fool? Get up!" She slowly rises to her feet, and he gives her a rough push, out of his way. "Step aside."

Osha, impassive, heads over to Bran, whispering to him.

Theon turns back to the crowd. "You'll all go about your tasks as usual. And in a few days—"

"Greyjoy!"

The gates swing open, the sound of whinnying horses making everyone look up. In rides two soldiers, followed by two more walking on their feet, hauling in an old man with blood smeared across his face. Rose recognises him as Ser Rodrik, the Master-at-Arms at Winterfell. One of her father's men.

"We caught this one on his way back from Torrhen's Square. Took out two of ours before I got his sword."

Theon crosses the yard. "Ser Rodrik, it grieves me that we meet as foes."

"It grieves me that you've less honour than a back-alley whore," Rodrik barks, his face twisted in rage. "You were raised here under this roof! These people are _your_ people!"

"They are _not_ my people."

"King Robb thought of you as a brother."

"My brothers are dead," Theon shouts. "They died fighting Stark men, men like you!"

"Aye, they died fighting a war your father started! Lord Stark raised you among his own sons."

"Among them, but not one of them!" Theon practically trembles with rage. "I was his hostage, taken from my home!"

Ser Rodrik shakes his head. "If he were alive to see this—"

"He's not. He's _dead_. The Seven Kingdoms are at war. And Winterfell is _mine_."

Rodrik glares, leaning close to him. "I should have put a sword in your belly instead of in your hand," he spits, venomously.

Theon's voice drops dangerously low. "You've served this house faithfully, old man. But keep talking and I'll—"

Ser Rodrik lathers up his spit and spews it out in Theon's face. One guard strikes him from behind, causing him to cry out in pain, sending him to his knees.

Theon wipes his face, furiously. "Take him to the cells! Lock him up!"

"My Prince." His first mate, Dagmer, Rose had heard him being called, steps forward, his face grave. "You cannot let that stand," he says, firmly. "He must pay."

"I'll lock him in a cell until he rots—"

"No," Dagmer interrupts. "He has to pay the iron price. They'll never respect you while he lives."

Theon stares at him. He looks around, at the watching crowds, at the guards, at Ser Rodrick. Then, he casts his gaze across the yard, where the Starks stand. Where Rose stands, rooted to the ground, clutching onto Rickon. Their eyes meet as the rain falls heavier. _No. Please, no, Theon._

After what feels like a lifetime, he nods. "Ser Rodrick, I sentence you to death!"

The breath leaves Rose's body, in the midst of the crowd's gasps.

"No!" Bran is the first to scream. "You said no harm would come to them if I yielded!"

"The old man couldn't keep his mouth shut," Theon bellows.

Maester Luwin hurries across the courtyard and grips onto his shoulders. "I urge you not to make a hasty decision," he pleads, calmly.

"He disrespected me in front of my men," Theon snaps. "That was _his_ decision, not mine!"

"He is worth more to you alive than dead," Luwin says. His voice is as steady as a rock, but his eyes are pleading, desperate. "The Starks will pay. Please, Theon," he begs. "Think what you do."

For a moment, Rose can see Theon's mind change in his face. But it's gone, the second he looks over Luwin's shoulder at Dagmer, who shakes his head, grimly. Theon stiffens, fixing Luwin with a stern look. "You'll address me as Prince Theon or you'll be next," he warns.

Luwin's hand slips from his shoulder. The guards grab onto Ser Rodrik and haul him to his feet with a heavy grunt. Bran continues to shriek at the top of his lungs, ordering them to stop. The rain begins to fall in a heavy pitter-patter rhythm, but Rose can hardly feel it against her numbing skin.

The guards haul Rodrik across the yard, Theon following them. Rickon slips from Rose's grip and starts to cry, loudly, bawling so the whole courtyard can hear him. Dagmer draws his sword from his belt, the sound sending Rose into action.

 _Her legs moving on their own accord, she lurches forward from the podium, slipping out of Littlefinger's grasp, past the King and Cersei. For one wild moment, when Ned turns to look at her, she thinks she'll reach him . . ._

"Theon! Theon, stop! Theon, look at me!" She jerks forward, racing toward him, standing in his way. Her hands claw, frantically at his face, pulling it to meet her gaze. "This isn't you! You know this isn't you, _please_."

He grabs her by her upper arms, his hold rough, then pushes her into the arms of his nearest guard. "Keep hold of her," he orders, gruffly. The guard wraps his arms around her waist, pinning her arms to her side as she watches in horror.

 _. . . an arm coated in heavy armour stops her from going any further. She doesn't know where he's come from, but the Hound holds her back. Rose shrieks at the top of her lungs, kicking out and fighting with everything she has . . ._

"He who passes the sentence should swing the sword," Rodrik shouts. "Coward!"

The guards force him to his knees, bending his head over the block. Theon's face changes to something murderous, and he draws his own sword, pushing Dagmer out of the way.

 _. . . the sight of Ser Ilyn drawing his silver sword makes her extremely dizzy. She goes slack in the Hound's arms, frightened she will vomit all over the podium. No, no, stop, please, gods, let this stop . . ._

"Stop! Stop right now!" Bran bellows, his voice thick with tears.

Theon positions his sword over Rodrik's neck. "You don't give commands anymore, little lord."

Bran grips onto Maester Luwin. "Please, stop this! _Please_ , stop him!"

"Hush now, child," Rodrik calls, softly. "I'm off to see your father."

 _. . . all she can do now is scream, the hot tears pouring down her cheeks making it difficult to see. She can hear Sansa's cries in the distance, but they seem to come from miles away. This isn't happening, this is not happening, don't do this, please . . ._

"You said no harm would come! You said no harm would come! Theon, please!"

"Any last words, old man?"

Rodrik looks up at him. "Gods help you, Theon Greyjoy. Now, you are truly lost."

Theon stares at him, startled. He waits until Rodrick has bowed his head again. Then, his raises his sword above his head and, furiously, takes the first swing. Bran lets out a blood-curdling cry, which tears through the courtyard.

 _. . . she's so close to the scene, that she can hear her father whisper his final prayers, draw his final breaths . . ._

Another swing, followed by another, blood spilling everywhere.

 _I love you, she's screeching, unsure if he can hear her. I love you, father! Father, I love you . . ._

Spatters of blood coating his face, he kicks Rodrik's disjointed head from his shoulders, where it rolls on the ground, in the mud and dirt. The crowd screams in disgust, the voices of Winterfell high under the rain.

Rose's mouth opens in a silent scream, but nothing comes out. The guard lets her go, and she drops to the ground, the rocks scratching her hands. She looks up at the rain drenching her.

 _Let it end. Let the world end here. Let it end now._

* * *

"I knew it was too late the moment we reached Castle Cerwyn." Rose lets out a sigh, leaning her head back against the wall. "We passed Torrhen's Square, and it was a ghost town."

Bran frowns. "Joffrey let you come home?"

"His uncle did. Lord Tyrion. I promised him I'd return to King's Landing with the two of you."

"So, they could hold us for ransom?" he whispers.

Rose shakes her head. "So, that you'd be safe from the Ironborn." She bites down on her bottom lip. "I thought they would _kill_ you."

"They're of more use alive than dead," Osha grumbles.

Rose flinches and wraps her arms tighter around Rickon, who is fast asleep in her lap, sniffling in his dreams. She buries her face in his curls, resisting the urge to cry again. When she looks up, she finds Osha staring at her, scrutinising. "Thank you, for taking care of my brothers," she whispers.

Osha grins, ruffling Bran's hair. "Little lord's not so bad."

Rose and Bran look at one another. His face is still streaked with tears, his eyes red from crying, but his expression is unreadable. "Listen," she sighs, lowering her voice. "There . . . there may be a way that you can escape."

"How?" Bran mumbles.

Rose sucks in a courageous breath. "I can distract Theon long enough for you to get away, _well_ away. Osha could take down his guards, and Hodor could carry you." Her hand instinctively stretches out to run over her direwolf's head, who lifts her chin and nuzzles into her palm. "Take Hope with you. She can keep you safe, with Summer and Shaggydog. You wouldn't be able to stop for anything. You'd have to _run_."

Bran shakes his head before she's even finished. "We can't leave Winterfell. We can't leave _you_ behind."

Rose smiles, sadly. She reaches over and cups his face in her hand. "I'm the big sister, Bran. I'm supposed to be taking care of you." Her breath trembles. "I failed. But, I trust that Theon won't hurt me."

Osha's eyes narrow. "What makes you say that?"

"It's a story for another time," she insists. "Will you do as I say?"

Bran and Osha exchange a long, silent look, then turn back to Rose and nod.

* * *

Rose fastens her hair into a braid and dresses in her nightgown, her stomach in knots. She finds no comfort in sitting still, instead pacing, up and down her chambers, waiting.

A rap on her door makes her turn. Dagmer steps through, blood still splattered across his shirt. "Prince Theon wants to see you in his chambers," he grunts. "Don't dawdle. He doesn't like to be kept waiting."

Rose sets down her brush. "I know," she says, coolly. "I know him better than you do."

Dagmer scowls, but doesn't respond. He opens the door wider for her, allowing her to step through, and leads her down the hallway. Right up to the Lord's Chambers, where her mother and father shared a bed. She instantly feels sick again.

Dagmer knocks, then opens the door, giving her a small push inside. Rose tries not to analyse her surroundings, fearful it will make her cry. Theon turns when she enters, and looks her, up and down. "Wait outside," he tells Dagmer.

When the door shuts again, the two are left in complete silence, other than the slight crackling of the fire. Theon stares at her for a long while. She stays still, her heart slamming against her ribs.

He walks towards her. She holds her breath as he raises his hand, but rather than hit her, he traces the yellowing bruise on her face. "Who did that?" he asks.

"Kingsguard," Rose whispers. "He was beating my sister and I intervened."

Theon peers at it, suddenly angry. Then, he jerks his hand away and looks down at her, his face rigid. "Who sent you North?"

"Lord Tyrion and Lord Varys."

"Why?"

"So, I could convince my brothers to leave Winterfell and come to King's Landing." Bravely, she looks him, squarely in the eye. Her voice fills with spite. "If I don't return, the King will put your head on a spike. So, I suggest you send me and my brothers away before he hunts you down."

Theon scowls. "You're staying put," he snarls. "My men cut down those Southern knights of yours. You'd never make it back there alive, on your own."

"I'd rather die _trying_ than stay here with you."

He grabs onto her arms, roughly, making her jump. "Careful. I'm used to your lip, but talk to me like this in front of my men, and I'm not responsible for what happens."

Rose finds herself shrinking backwards from his grip. "You're their _prince_. You make the rules. You didn't have to kill Ser Rodrik, a man you've known since you were a boy." Mustering her courage, she shrugs out of his hold. "It was your stupid pride that clouded your judgement! You're _terrified_ they won't respect you!"

"They will, now," he snaps. "I'll _make_ them respect me. You and your little brothers will respect me, too. Or there'll be consequences."

Frustrated tears spring to her eyes. "Sansa is all alone in King's Landing. You have no idea what it's been like. You have no idea the things they've done to us, just, please . . ." her breath hitches, "let me go back to her."

Theon swallows. "I can't, Rose. You know I can't."

She shakes her head, tears spilling down her cheeks. "In the courtyard, I thought about the day they killed father," she whispers. "The day Ser Ilyn lifted his sword and sliced his head from his shoulders, like he was cutting through soft butter, the crowd roaring their obscenities, wishing for his pain. The look in father's eyes when he realised . . ."

Rose squeezes her eyes shut, taking a steadying breath. When she opens them again, Theon is staring at the floor. "What you did, you brought all of that back to me. Everything I tried so hard to forget. I _hate_ you for it," she declares, her voice breaking.

She turns her back on him, ready to flee. But his hand grabs her wrist. "Rose."

Rose wants to scream at him not to touch her. Instead, she spins back around and strikes her other hand across his face, hitting him with all the strength she can muster. A gasp escapes her when his head snaps to the side. Her red handprint appears on the side of his cheek.

Theon's head slowly turns back to face her, twisting in rage. "I am Theon Greyjoy, the only living son of Lord Balon Grey, heir to the Iron Islands, and Prince of Winterfell." He grabs onto her again, pushing her back against the bedpost, knocking the breath out of her. "Raise a hand to me again and I'll—"

"What? You'll drag me to the courtyard and hack off my head, too?"

"Stop," he barks. He shuts his eyes, taking a breath to calm himself.

Rose watches him through her tearful vision. Her hands go up, instinctively, then cradle his face, opening his eyes. "Would you kill me, Theon?" she implores, softly. " _Could_ you?"

Theon hangs his head, pressing her against the bedpost. Rose continues to trace the features of his face, desperately lifting his chin so she can look at him. He is so close to her now, his lips brush against hers, not kissing her, but sharing one breath.

Then, there is no distance between them. His hands are running over the sides of her body, his mouth covering hers. Rose can no longer feel the world beneath her feet. There's just him, his body pressing against hers, and his hands—they run over her waist, her backside, then up, tangling through her hair.

Their lips part for air, and that's when the kiss explodes.

His hand snakes round to her thigh, hoisting it up. She lets out a whimper when his crotch rubs against her, up and down. Her back arches against the bedpost. His lips move from her mouth to her neck, suckling there, his other hand cradling her face.

They grind together, like wild animals in heat. When, suddenly, she is very aware that this is Theon, _Theon Greyjoy_ , touching her. The man holding her prisoner. The man who took her home, who betrayed her brother.

She pushes against his chest. "I can't, Theon," she breathes, tearful again.

He stops, but his hands find her face, forcing her to look at him. "Stay, please," he begs, not a hint of pride in his voice. "I won't hurt you, Rose, I won't hurt you, I won't."

He kisses her again, but she doesn't stop him. Instead, hating herself, she sinks into it, drawing him close to her. Then, his fingers are pushing her dress down her shoulders, kissing the skin as it bares with ferocity. She feels the fabric dropping around their feet, his body pressing against her nakedness, but the heat growing inside of her takes over.

Rose's hands tremble as she unbuckles his belt, tearing his trousers as she does so. She reaches inside and grabs onto his member, which is larger than she remembers. Theon takes care of the rest. As she pushes him inside of her, he grabs a hold of her legs and wraps them around his waist, ramming into her with a thrust that causes them both to cry out.

Again, he thrusts. And again, and again. She wraps her arms around his shoulders to balance herself, feeling the wooden bedpost scrape against her back. Their mouths clash together, moaning into one another. Each hard thrust sends them deeper into this pleasure, somewhere between heaven and hell, into a real, unreal world.


	17. A Man Without Honour

**A/N:** contains strong violence.

* * *

 **A Man Without Honour**

"It's hard to put a leash on a dog once you've put a crown on its head."

* * *

"Up. Wake up."

Rose groans, rolling over and lulling back to sleep.

A sharp sigh from across the room is followed by the sheets tearing off her, whipping down the opposite side of the bed. She lets out a shriek and sits up, wrapping her arms around her bare chest. "Seven Hells, Theon!"

He stands at the end of the bed, washed and dressed in his Ironborn armour, looking furious. "Your brothers," he asks, brusquely. "Where are they?"

Rose rubs her eyes. "What are you talking about?"

"Their chambers are empty; their beds are still made. Where did they go?"

The memories of the previous night come flooding back to her. She'd become so lost in her moment with Theon, she'd forgotten all about the plan. The entire reason she was sharing his bed in the first place. A part of her feels giddy with the relief that Osha had succeeded. But that part fades when she looks into Theon's steely eyes.

"I don't know," she says, quietly.

He scrutinises her. He can tell she's lying, she knows it.

A guard appears in the doorway. "My Prince." He bows his head. His focus flits, briefly over to Rose, at her stark-naked body. She draws her knees up to her chest, covering herself as best she can, blushing furiously. "Dagmer wants you in the courtyard," he tells Theon, grimly. "There's something you need to see."

Theon nods, curtly. The guard looks once towards Rose, then disappears again.

Angrily, Theon crosses over to her side of the bed and grabs her arm, hauling her off the bed and to her feet. "Get dressed," he orders. He reaches into the wardrobe and hauls out one of her mother's old dresses, one that she must have left behind. "Be quick about it."

When Rose realises he has no intention of leaving without her by his side, she begins to clothe herself, her hands trembling.

* * *

The guards are gathered around the corpse of the watchman, which is still slowly bleeding out on the ground. The wound slashed across his neck sends shudders down Rose's spine. She mentally reminds herself never to cross Osha, wrapping her cloak, tighter around her shoulders.

"Cripple," Theon spits. "You let a _cripple_ escape." Lorren looks to his comrades for help, but they all stare back at him, lost for words. "The boy can't walk, but somehow, he slipped past you?"

Lorren shrugs. "The giant must have took him."

Theon glares. "The _giant_?" he repeats. "Hodor? Oh, well, that's alright, then." He turns his back on his crew, seething with rage. "You let a half-wit escape with a cripple. And Rickon, too, the little one?"

"Gone," Lorren sighs. "Along with the wildling woman. While you were fucking the Stark bitch."

Rose flinches. She sees the change in Theon's features, from annoyance as he looks her way, then back to pure rage. Spinning around, he lands a punch in Lorren's jaw, sending him toppling backwards. Rose gasps, covering her mouth as she watches. Theon shakes out his hand, then uses his foot, kicking him in the face, the ribs, the groin, dirt and blood spraying everywhere.

Theon staggers back, admiring his handiwork. "Right," he pants, turning to Dagmer. "Get the horses, and the hounds."

The crew part to let him walk through. Rose bites down on her lower lip when she sees he's heading straight for her. "Theon—"

He grabs her arm, hauling her along with him as he walks. "If I hear so much as a _peep_ out of you, I'll fasten a bridle to your head," he threatens. "Have you got that?" She nods, silently. He pushes her in the direction of the man preparing his horse. "This one will be riding with me."

* * *

Rose is seated in front of Theon, while he takes the reins from behind her. She sits, sideways on, her arms wrapped around his waist, nestled against his chest, as their horse gallops after the barking hounds. Maester Luwin follows them from behind, looking out of place in the hunting party.

A few miles out of Winterfell, the party finally stops to a halt, while the hounds sniff about in the woods. Theon pivots his horse around to face Maester Luwin. "Enjoying your first hunt?"

"So far, hunting seems very similar to riding, My Lord."

"With hunting, there's blood at the end."

Luwin shakes his head. "They're little boys."

"I was a little boy when I was torn away from my home and brought here," Theon points out, sharply. "But, I kept my word. I _never_ ran away. If I find them soon enough, I won't hurt them."

Luwin frowns.

"Well, I'll hurt them," Theon muses. "But I won't kill them."

Rose scowls, but says nothing. Maester Luwin catches her eye, his face softening when he sees her distress. "Those boys are of far more value to you alive than dead."

"They have _no_ value to me missing!"

"Robb will have sent a force to retake Winterfell by now."

"Robb's in the Riverlands," Theon snaps. "My sister's in Deepwood Motte. She'll get here long before they do. And Ned Stark always said five-hundred men could hold Winterfell against ten-thousand."

A dog's howl turns all heads. The hounds start to race towards a farm, on the opposite end of the woods. Rose feels her stomach curling into knots. _Please, let them get away. Please, gods, keep them hidden_.

"The hounds have the scent." Theon grins. "Come, Maester, don't look so grim. It's all just a game." He pivots his horse. Rose clings, tightly onto him as the horse sets off in a gentle gallop.

She shivers against the cold air. "I'm the one who distracted you long enough for them to escape," she reminds him. "If you're going to punish someone, then punish me."

"Oh, I will," Theon insists, darkly. "Don't you worry about that. But, right now, it's your baby brothers I'm after."

"If you lay a finger on them—"

"Think before you finish that sentence," he warns.

Rose lifts her chin to glare up at him, gritting her teeth. "If you lay a finger on them, I'll put a sword through your eye."

Theon doesn't look at her. He keeps his gaze ahead, but a flash of anger crosses his face, stronger than Rose had ever seen it. "You'll regret those words, Lady Stark," he whispers, clenching tighter onto the reins. "I'll make sure you do."

* * *

Rose stands next to the farmhouse, Maester Luwin at her side. When he notices she is still shivering, he wraps his arm around her shoulder and pulls her close. She relaxes into his embrace.

The entire day, her nerves have been wrecked. She looks into every corner of the woods, praying that her brothers aren't nearby, hoping against all hopes that they're somewhere far, far away. A part of her wishes Theon would give up and take the hunting party back to Winterfell, but if anything, he's becoming more desperate by the second.

"They've lost the scent."

"Try again," he orders.

"We've circled this farmhouse twice. There's no sign of them."

Maester Luwin steps forward. "We could start the search fresh in the morning, My Lord."

Theon lashes out, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck. "I'm looking at spending the rest of my life being treated like a fool and a eunuch by my own people," he raves. "Ask yourself, is there anything I wouldn't do to stop that from happening?"

Rose leaps forward, tugging at his arm. "Theon, _stop_ this!"

"How many times have I got to tell you?" he bellows, rounding on her, snatching himself out of her grip. He points his finger, threateningly at her. " _Keep your mouth shut_! The hounds will find the scent again. I'll beat them until they do! I'll whip every man here until I have those boys in hand! And once I've got them, the pampered little shits . . ." he steps back, clenching his jaw. "It's better to be cruel than weak."

"Prince Theon."

Two guards drag the farmer, a face Rose recognises, from the house. Theon approaches him, still filled with rage. "Where are they?"

"Who, m'lord?"

"The Stark boys. Where are they?"

The farmer shakes his head, trembling. "I don't know. I seen no one."

Theon slams his fist into his ribs, making him howl in pain, sending him to his knees.

"Gods, Theon, leave him!" Rose screeches. "He hasn't _seen_ anything."

Suddenly, the guard in front of her spins around, the back of his hand crashing into the side of her face. Pain ripples down her cheekbone, the skin breaking. "That's _Prince_ Theon to you," he snarls. "You little whore."

"Leave her be," Theon demands.

Rose looks up to see him staring at her, his brow furrowed in concern. She cups her face in her hand, swallowing back the tears, as Maester Luwin rubs gentle circles on her back.

Theon turns back to the farmer. "Think harder."

"I swear, m'lord," he pleads, from the ground. "I don't know."

Theon rears back, preparing to strike again.

"My Lord," Dagmer calls, from across the yard. He's crouched down next to some fallen hay bales, staring at something in his hand. "Over here."

Theon crosses over to him, as his first mate straightens up, holding out his hand. "I think I've found what we're looking for," he murmurs. The pair exchange glances, then scan their surroundings, grim looks on their faces. "Send the old man home. The Stark girl, too."

Theon nods, then the pair turn back to where Maester Luwin and Rose are stood, waiting anxiously. "Go back to Winterfell," he orders. "Take him back."

The guard who had struck Rose grabs him, leading him towards the horses. "Theon, don't do this," Luwin begs, over his shoulder.

Theon sucks in a breath, looking down at Rose. He lifts his hand and wipes at her bloodied cheek, conflicted. Rose bites down on her lip, her heart hammering. "I'm begging you," she whispers. "Don't hurt them, I'll do anything you—"

"The girl," he barks. "Take her back, too. Lock her in her chambers."

Rose shakes her head, latching onto his hand. He squeezes it back, their eyes meeting for a brief, tender moment. Then, the guard is leading her away, and his face turns back to cold steel.

* * *

Rose sits on the end of her bed, chewing on her lip. She waits, listening for the smallest sounds from outside, until she finally hears the horses galloping through the gates, the men shouting. She pulls her legs up to her chest, pressing her lips against her knees. _Please, let them have lost the trail. Don't let them hurt my brothers. Don't let him . . ._

The door unlocks, then swings open. In storms Theon, whose rigid, angry posture hasn't changed since she last saw him. His gaze settles on her as he shuts the door behind him.

"Did you find them?" she asks, in a small voice.

He stands in front of her, beginning to unbuckle his belt. "Get up."

Rose frowns. "What are you doing?"

He strips himself of his belt, but doesn't make another move to undress. Instead, he stretches out the leather, his jaw clenching. "Bend over the bed and lift your skirt," he orders. "Do it now. Let's get this over with."

Bile rises in her throat. She stares at the belt in his hand, instantly backing away when she realises what he intends to do. "Touch me with that thing, and I'll—"

"We can do this in here, or we can do it out in the yard for everyone to see," he sighs. "Either way, I promised to punish you. And that's what I'm going to do."

Rose glares him down, though her heart races. "I won't allow you to beat me."

"What you'll _allow_ doesn't matter," Theon snaps, furiously. "This is nothing compared to what they do to girls back in the Iron Islands. All my men talked about the entire ride home was dragging you into the courtyard and stringing you up for all of Winterfell to see." He sucks in a deep breath, clearly trying to shake the thought away. "Count your blessings you're a Lady." Lashing out, he grabs her ankle and pulls her down the bed, making her gasp. " _This_ is how you punish a Lady."

Rose's face sets. Using her free foot, she kicks out and catches Theon on the chin, lurching him backwards. She didn't put enough force behind it.

He keeps a hold of her as she continues to kick and scream, using all of his strength to flip her onto her stomach, her face burying in the sheets. She feels her entire body go numb as he climbs onto the bed, mounting her legs, planting his hand, firmly in the small of her back. All she can do is lie there, screeching, begging for him to stop, as he lifts her skirt up so high, she can feel the hem brushing against her neck.

"Theon, please," Rose cries, tears in her eyes. "You said you wouldn't hurt me, you _promised_ you'd—"

Her words turn into a scream when the first strike lands across her cheeks. She doesn't have a moment to get used to the burning pain when the next blow lands. And another, and another, back and forth across her bared skin. Her struggles cease as the punishment continues, her body going slack, flinching with each strap, shaking with her heavy sobs.

"Please, stop," she cries, over and over again.

Theon ignores her, continuing his assault until his arm tires. It feels like hours have passed when he lands the last few strikes, each harder than the rest, and her screams reach a crescendo. Finally, he stops.

Rose lies there on the bed, waiting and listening, her breath hitching. Theon is still for a long while, catching his own breath. After what feels like forever, the weight of him leaves her legs, the sound of his boots hitting the floor. He sits down on the edge of the bed and falls silent.

Rose refuses to look up at him. She keeps her face buried in her arms, tears streaming down her cheeks, dripping onto the sheets. Then, she feels his hand on the small of her back. She flinches, her heart missing a beat. But, he rubs comforting circles there, without saying a word.

They stay like that for a while. Rose sniffles into the pillows, hoping that her burning flesh would subside, but it doesn't ease. As much as she hates to admit it, having Theon at her side, silently comforting her, is the only consolation she has.

But, she hates him. She truly, deeply hates him.

He waits until her breathing evens out. Then, he gets up and pulls her skirt back down, over her bruising skin. "I'm gathering your people in the courtyard tomorrow morning," he says, the sharp sound of his voice making her jump. "Dagmer will come to fetch you. For now, stay here. Get some sleep."

His footsteps head for the door, which he shuts and locks behind him. Rose feels the emptiness now, creeping in on her. Not bothering to change, she rolls over onto her side and drifts off into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

Rose can hear the birds chirping outside when she awakens. Her entire body hurts, and for a second, she can't remember why. Then, she rolls onto her back and lets out a hiss of pain when her sore backside connects with the mattress. It's subsided into a sharp throbbing, but she can feel the clear welt lines against her flesh.

She gets up, stretches herself out and heads for the window. She can see the crowds beginning to gather in the courtyard, under the sleet and rain. He's standing there, on the platform, watching them all arrive. He paces, uneasily, a sense of nervousness about his disposition.

The door opens behind Rose. She turns to see Dagmer, as promised, standing in the doorway with a grim smile. "With me, little lady," he grunts.

Rose smooths out her braid, which is messy from sleep, and grabs her cloak from the floor where she left it. Dagmer steps aside, letting her pass through the door.

"I hope Theon wasn't too rough on you last night," he muses, scrutinising her. Rose shakes her head, blushing, as they continue down the hallway. "A whipped backside never did anyone serious injury. It hurts like hell, I'll give you that. Still, you won't be crossing the Prince again, now, will you?" It's not a question.

Rose swallows, saying nothing.

He leads her out into the courtyard. The moment she steps out, the mud beneath her feet, she can feel Theon watching her from the platform. She doesn't give him the satisfaction of looking back. Instead, she keeps her head down, ignoring the knowing leers from his crew, and stands with the rest of the crowd.

"I told you what would happen," Theon starts, scanning the Northerners. "All of you. I told you what would happen if you served me loyally. And what would happen if you did not."

Two guards emerge from the Keep, dragging Maester Luwin with them. "What are you doing?" he asks, trembling. "What have you done?"

They drag him right to the front, to stand next to Rose. He looks at her, searching for answers, but she shakes her head. Suddenly, she feels very, very ill.

"If there are any who still question whether your new Lord means what he says," Theon continues, extending his arm towards the gates. "Here is the answer to your question."

Screams fill the air. Rose cannot hear them. They seem to come from miles away. Her entire body goes numb, filled with a strange, burning heat as the incinerated bodies of her little brothers are strung up, swinging to and fro over the gates of Winterfell.

* * *

 **A/N:** one of the most difficult chapters to write, for me. I did warn you, Rose's story was going to take some dark turns! Let's talk for a moment about the choices made in this chapter—specifically, Theon's choice.

First of all, I do not condone beating women (or men!) in this way. What Theon did to Rose was wrong. Period. HOWEVER, Theon knew that his men would not be satisfied letting her off scot free. He demanded respect, and she didn't give it. She went behind his back—for noble reasons—but still defied him. I was left with the question; how could Theon punish Rose without causing her genuine physical injury? For me, this was the simplest answer.

I avoided the Game of Thrones books for a long time, but finally finished the first one! When I moved onto A Clash of Kings, I came across the birching scene in the second chapter, when Yoren punishes Arya for attacking Hot Pie. That's what inspired this particular scene between Theon and Rose. It makes sense with the time period, it shows how far Theon is willing to go to maintain authority, and it will stir an interesting dynamic between the former lovers for future chapters/episodes.

Nothing about this is meant to be sexual. Perhaps Theon's mindset stems from his dominant encounters with Rose in the past, but in my mind, he didn't do this for pleasure.

That being said, feel free to hate on Theon for his actions. What he did was pretty vicious.


	18. The Prince of Winterfell

**The Prince of Winterfell**

"A day will come when you think you are safe and happy, and your joy will turn to ashes in your mouth. And you will know the debt is paid."

* * *

"If I return to King's Landing now, they'll have me executed."

"You don't know that."

Rose sniffles. "I never should have convinced them to escape," she whispers. "I should have told to stay put . . . to do as Theon asked. It's all my fault." She shakes her head, unable to stop her face from crumpling. "I deserve this," she cries. "I deserve _all_ of this." Her breath hitches, loudly. She buries her face in her hands and begins to sob, her body shaking with it.

Maester Luwin wraps his arm around her shoulders. "No one forced Theon to make his choice," he insists. "The blood of your brothers is on his hands, not yours."

Rose continues to shake her head, weeping into her hands.

Luwin runs his hand over her hair. "I brought you into this world," he murmurs. "I remember you; a screaming, beautiful babe in your mother's arms. I remember how happy she was to finally have a little girl." He smiles at her when she lifts her chin up to look at him. "The greatest privilege of my life has been in watching you grow. You, and Robb, and Sansa, all of you. Whatever mistakes you may have made, however crooked your paths have become, I know your father . . ." he sucks in a trembling breath, "your _dear_ father would be so very proud of his eldest girl."

Rose blinks away her tears. For the first time since she arrived in Winterfell, her heart begins to mend, a seeping warmth filling her chest. Luwin leans over and kisses her forehead. She wipes at her wet cheeks, her resolve forming.

"I want to _kill_ him, Maester," she confesses.

He doesn't look outraged, as she expected him to be. "I know, child. I know."

* * *

Rose finds him in the courtyard, standing next to Dagmer, looking down at the mangled bodies of the ravens in the dirt. He'd ordered them all killed, so word of Bran and Rickon's death could never leave Winterfell. She thinks of her mother and brother, and Sansa, how they'll never get the chance to mourn their loss. Her stomach turns at the thought.

Theon glances over his shoulder when he hears her coming. He scans her, quickly. Her eyes are red and puffy from crying, but her chin is tilted with a dignity he hasn't seen in a long while. She wraps her cloak, tighter around herself, shielding the eggplant-coloured dress she's donned. There's a slight bruise on her cheek from when his guard had struck her, clear against her pale skin.

"My sister is arriving in Winterfell today," he tells her, as Dagmer steps aside. "You'll come with me to meet her."

"And if I don't?" Rose asks, curtly. "Will you hold me down and beat me again? Or find another sibling of mine to burn?"

Theon sighs, exasperated. "Your brothers ran. That was their choice."

"It was _my_ choice," she snaps. "If anyone's corpse should be hanging from the gates, it's mine, and you know it."

She doesn't look behind her, at the charred remains of Bran and Rickon, but hurt flashes across her face, nonetheless. She leans in closer to him, lowering her voice. "The only reason I'm still alive is because I let you fuck me. You'd rather beat me like some sadist than watch me burn, hoping I'll come back to warm your bed someday. But, you'll never, _ever_ touch me like that again. D'you hear me?"

Theon blinks, at a loss for words. Then, he looks angry. He opens his mouth to retort, perhaps with more empty threats, but is interrupted by a cry from the battlements.

"Riders approaching!"

"Open the gates!"

Theon and Rose turn to see them creaking open. He crosses the courtyard to stand in front of them, the sound of galloping horses getting closer and closer. Guards, dressed in the Ironborn colours, their armour engraved with the Greyjoy sigil, come streaming through, riding past Theon.

A woman, with hair brown like mud, and a surly look on her face, rides in the centre, circling Theon on her horse. Yara, she's called, his older sister. Rose watches, half-expecting an army to come waltzing through. But only several other men appear, and then the gates shut, leaving Winterfell only a fraction more populated than before.

* * *

Theon storms into the dining room, Rose inches behind him. At the head of the table, where his men are feasting, sits Yara, who looks up with a mocking smirk. "Why, it's the Prince of Winterfell."

"Envy isn't attractive," Theon sneers.

"What envy?"

"You should be proud of your brother's achievement. I took the great castle of Winterfell with twenty men."

Yara nods, munching on a chicken leg. "You're a great warrior. I saw the bodies above your gates. Which one gave you the tougher fight, the cripple or the six-year-old?"

The Ironborn cackle with cruel laughter. Rose feels plenty of their eyes on her, and hastily tightens her cloak, shielding as much of herself as possible.

Scowling, Theon rounds the table, looming over his sister. "I treated the Stark boys with honour, and they repaid me with treachery," he snaps.

"You treated them with honour?" Yara repeats, incredulously. "By _butchering_ them?"

" _Before_ I had to kill them, I treated them—"

"You seized their home, as is your right. We're Ironborn, we take what we need."

Theon nods. "Exactly."

"Then, you made them prisoners in their own home and they ran away. Is that treachery?" she asks, with a small smile. "I'd call it bravery."

"They made me a promise," he hisses.

"Your little boy prisoners made you a promise and you got mad when they broke it?" Yara snaps. She looks up at him with ridicule, disgust. "Are you the dumbest cunt alive?"

Theon clenches his fists. "Don't call me—"

"A cunt," she finishes. "A dumb cunt who killed the only two Starks in Winterfell."

"Not the only two," he hisses. His stare shifts to Rose, who is still stood in the centre of the room, keeping well away from the guards.

Yara turns, following his gaze. She scrutinises her, in mild shock. "You're Rose Stark," she murmurs. Rose nods, softly. "Thought you were in King's Landing."

"She was," Theon says, brusquely. "She came back."

Yara lifts an eyebrow. "In time to see you string up her brothers? You know how valuable those boys were?"

"If I hadn't killed them, the Northerners would think me weak," Theon sighs, irritated.

"You _are_ weak. And you're stupid."

Theon steps forward, his face dark. "I'm warning you."

"Go on then," Yara spits. "Warn me."

The room falls into an uncomfortable hush as brother and sister stare each other out. Theon is the first to break, turning towards the unwanted attention. His gaze flits over to Rose, and his posture stiffens again. "You haven't brought enough men," he grumbles. "How am I supposed to defend Winterfell with just this lot?"

"You're not," Yara sighs. "I've come to bring you home. Father wants a word."

Rose holds her breath.

"Is this a joke?" Theon barks, furiously. "Winterfell is the heart of the North."

"Aye, it is, hundreds of miles from the sea. We're islanders, baby brother. Had you forgotten that?" she asks. He averts his gaze to the ground, in deep thought. "Our power comes from our ships. And now that you've decorated your walls with the bodies of the Stark boys, every man in the North wants to see you hanged." Something resembling concern colours her tone. "When Robb Stark finds out—"

"He won't find out," Theon promises. "We've killed all the ravens. We have all the horses." He lifts his chin in the air, dignified. "I've taken Winterfell. And I will _keep_ Winterfell."

Yara looks down. She takes a moment to ponder his words, then her face sets in a grim line. "Leave us," she orders her men. Setting their feast aside, the crew get to their feet and trudge out of the room. Rose considers following them, sneaking out, but thinks better of it and stays, rooted to her spot.

Yara gets to her feet, too, turning to face her brother. "Theon, you're my blood," she says, softly. "We both loved our mother. We both . . . endured our father. Come home with me, don't die here alone."

Theon's jaw clenches. "I don't intend to die."

Yara gazes at him, thoughtfully. "You were a terrible baby; do you know that?" she murmurs. "Bawling all the time, never sleeping. And one night, you just wouldn't shut up, screaming like a dying pig. I walked over to your crib, I looked down at you. I wanted to strangle you," she confesses, with a sigh. "And you looked up at me and you stopped screaming. You smiled at me." She sucks in a breath, giving him a steady look. "Don't die so far from the sea."

Theon opens his mouth to say something, but she turns and heads for the door. As she passes Rose, she gives her a small nod, then the door slams behind her. Theon looks after her, conflicted.

His focus goes to Rose, who cannot resist a tiny grin. "I like her," she whispers.

* * *

She finds her in the courtyard, tending to her horse. Yara looks over her shoulder when she hears Rose approaching. "How old are you, girl?"

"Sixteen."

She stops saddling her horse and turns to face her, scrutinising the fading bruise on her cheek and her rigid posture. "My brother's men. Have they harmed you?"

Rose shrugs, folding her arms. "The odd slap now and then, but, no. Nothing like . . . that." She blushes a little. "They wanted to, after I helped my brothers escape, but . . . Theon wouldn't let them."

Yara scoffs. "He cares for you. I see it, when he looks at you. Those big, puppy dog eyes."

Rose bites down on her lip. As much as she hates to admit it, her heart misses a beat. "He has a funny way of showing it," she mutters. "I've known him for a long time." A heaving sigh escapes her. "When I was a child, I used to believe the actions of our fathers would never come between us. That we'd never blame one another for their mistakes." She shrugs. "Now, being here, it seems like that's _all_ we've done."

Yara drops the saddle completely, her full attention on Rose's changing face.

"The truth is," she breathes, then solemnly says, "I never saw him as my father's hostage. He was always just my friend. I was stupid to think it didn't matter to him, how he got here in the first place."

"It matters," Yara insists. "It matters so much, he's put his life on the line to prove it."

"He killed my _brothers_ to prove it," Rose murmurs, her voice thick. "Boys he once considered family. And he betrayed Robb . . ." she trails off, again. At the mention of his name, she's filled with an ache, a yearning to see him again.

"And yet you love him."

Rose blinks, startled. She repeats the words over and over again in her head, but cannot make sense of them. "The gods have an interesting sense of humour," she mumbles, shaking her head. "He tore into my home and ripped my family apart. I don't care why he did it, I don't need an excuse. I can never forgive him. I'll _never_ forgive him."

Yara's eyes narrow. She takes a sudden step towards her, making her flinch, but her usually stony face is soft. "I may not think much of your family . . . but, I know what it's like to lose a brother or two." Her hand rests on Rose's shoulder, giving it a small squeeze. "I am sorry."

Rose blinks, stunned. After a long pause, she finds it in her to give a timid nod.

 _If there's one thing I don't understand, it's the bloody Ironborn._

* * *

Rose feels cold hands on her arms, gently shaking her. She jolts awake, startled, looking into the eyes of Maester Luwin. His anxious face is reflected in the light of the candle he holds. "Come with me," he whispers.

She squints in the darkness. "What?"

"Keep quiet. We don't have long."

Compliantly, Rose flings off the covers and climbs out of bed. He hands her a cloak, which she wraps around her nightgown, as she follows him to the door, her bare feet padding along the wooden floorboards.

He leads her out into the courtyard, then ducking under the gates, he grabs her hand as he makes his way into the crypts. She frowns, but doesn't protest. They make their way down the stone steps, into the grim darkness.

At the end of the crypt, she can see a small light, a candlelight, bouncing off the tombstones. Her heart thumping, the sound echoing in her ears, she rushes over to it.

She knows. She already knows before she sees them. And her heart feels like it's about to burst with joy as she steps into the warm light.

Bran sits, his back against the wall, wide awake. Rickon is laying down next to Hodor, but stirs when he hears approaching footsteps. Their faces turn to hers in identical timing. Rose feels the ground against her knees as she falls, her mouth opening in a soundless cry.

Bran is the first to move, crawling over to her and flinging into her awaiting arms. Rickon lets out a mirthful giggle and sprints over, nearly sending the three toppling to the floor. And then there's the soft whimpering of Summer, and Shaggydog, and _Hope_ , who bounds over and laps at her face.

Tears pouring down her cheeks, Rose cradles her brothers close, feeling the world begin to piece itself back together again.


	19. Blackwater

**A/N:** TRIGGER WARNING: graphic scene, depictions of sexual violence. Of all the chapters I've written, this has been the hardest. Yes, I am mentally sane. No, I didn't enjoy writing it and it's definitely not for the faint-hearted, so feel free to skip past it if you wish. That said, it just wouldn't be Game of Thrones without moments like this.

Plus, I'm aware that this episode focused exclusively on the Battle of Blackwater, but the events in this chapter are very important to Rose's story.

* * *

 **Blackwater**

"The world is built by killers. So, you better get used to looking at them."

* * *

Rose leans against the walls of the crypt, Rickon's head rested in her lap. Osha sits beside her, watching her hand run through her brother's curls, humming a gentle lullaby. Opposite them is Hodor and Bran, their heads lulling against one another, sound asleep.

"Will you travel South with us?" Rose asks, softly. "To King's Landing?"

Osha frowns. "You really think you'll be safe there?"

"Safer than we'll be here. Theon's men demanded my head after I helped them escape." She sighs, squirming to get comfortable on the cold ground. "I didn't know how much the Lannisters valued our lives until Lord Tyrion sent me away. Whilst Robb is in rebellion, any Starks they can get their hands on are priceless. It's better to be their captors, alive, than home in Winterfell, in constant danger."

Osha scoffs, rolling her eyes. "If you say so."

Rose turns her head to scowl at her. "Well, I can't take them to my mother and brother," she hisses. "I'd be sending them into war."

"Is it not war that claims all lords in the end?" she asks, curiously. Her gaze flits over the candle in her hand, and she brushes her finger over the small flame. "In their fancy clothing, and their horses, and shining armour. Fighting the battles of their fathers."

Rose bites down on her lip. "No," she whispers. "Not for them."

 _Please, gods, not for them._

* * *

In the earliest hours of the morning, she takes to a bath, desperate to wash the last few days from her body.

Walking back through the empty courtyard, a sense of joy sweeps over her at how peaceful it is—she can almost pretend like the past year hasn't happened, that soon, she'll be in the dining room, having breakfast with her siblings like old times. But, the burnt remains of the farmers' boys hanging over the gates are a sore reminder of the reality she's living in.

Once the water is heated, she strips herself naked and sinks in, feeling the water lapping over her aching limbs. Her mind easing, she finds herself sinking further until her entire head is covered. She feels as if she could drift off, if she closes her eyes for a moment . . .

* * *

" _. . . Nagga, the sea dragon, he built his throne from her bones, then fell in love with a mermaid and ruled for over a thousand years. After that, we started to raid the mainland for our resources. People called us reavers and raiders."_

 _Twelve-year-old Theon climbs the next rock, then turns back around and offers his hands. Rose, ten-years-old, takes them and allows him to haul her up. "Why can't you grow your own food?" she asks. "Like us Northerners do?"_

 _He shrugs. "The soil on the Iron Islands is bad. Nothing really grows there."_

 _Rose beams. "I'd like to see the Iron Islands someday."_

 _Theon looks down at her, his eyes flashing, happily. "I'll take you," he promises. "When my father summons me and I return to claim the Salt Throne."_

 _Rose giggles as they climb up the crooked rocks. She follows his precise movements, not daring to look down in case she becomes afraid of falling. They've been climbing for so long now, she's surprised they're not buried in the clouds._

" _Robb says your sigil is a golden kraken," she says. "Have you ever seen one, up close?"_

" _No," Theon sighs. "They're just legends, dreamed up by drunken sailors."_

" _Still, it would be exciting to see one."_

 _Theon pulls himself up onto the highest stone, looking down at her, triumphantly. She pouts, offering her hand. He chuckles, then takes it, lifting her up to stand beside him. Turning, Rose gasps when she sees Winterfell from this distance. She's never been this far outside of it before, never seen how big and beautiful it truly is. Bigger than the Red Keep, they say._

 _She sits down, dangling her legs over the edge, catching her breath. Theon sits, quietly at her side, watching her. "Girls are prettier here than they are in the Iron Islands," he concludes._

 _Rose grins. "But, I bet they're fatter!"_

"You're _not fat!"_

" _I_ can't _be fat," she giggles. "I'm a Lady of Winterfell. I'm supposed to be beautiful, like mother."_

 _Theon shuffles closer to her, so his arm is brushing against hers. "I hear the way people talk about you. They call you the Rose of Winterfell."_

 _Rose wrinkles her nose. "Just because I'm named after a silly flower, doesn't make me pretty."_

" _I like the way you look," he insists, still staring at her. "You have eyes like the sea."_

 _Rose smiles, brightly, turning to look at him. She feels her heart doing a strange somersault thing in her chest. He has a kind face, but mischief in his eyes, like he's going to get her in serious trouble. And she's never looked at him this close before._

" _Will you kiss me?" she asks._

 _Theon frowns. "Kiss you?"_

" _Have you never kissed a girl before?"_

" _Of course, I have," he scoffs, though his cheeks blush bright red. "Loads and loads. I've just . . . never kissed a Northerner. I don't think my father would like that."_

 _Rose twists herself around so she can face him better, and he copies her actions, sending a swirl of excitement into the pit of her belly. "You could close your eyes and pretend I'm Ironborn, if that helps," she suggests._

 _Theon stares into her eyes, admiring the colour again. "No," he decides, quietly. "You should tilt your head." She nods, then angles it to the side, so it rests on her shoulder. He bursts into spluttering laughter. "Not that far, idiot! Like this."_

 _He grabs her face in his hands and adjusts it to his liking. His fingers are a little rough against her cheeks and cold from all the climbing. It feels strange, but nice, like her pointy face fits perfectly inside his hands._

 _Theon closes his eyes, leaning closer to her until their lips are touching. She kisses him back, expecting his lips to be rough and scaly, but they're soft, pressing against hers. After three seconds, counted in her head, he draws away again. She opens her eyes, her heart fluttering to see an enormous smile on his face . . ._

* * *

Rose gasps, jerking upwards in the bath, sending water flying over the sides and splashing to the ground. The memory is so happy, a giddy laugh escapes her, surprised at how she managed to fall asleep so suddenly. Shaking her head at herself, she lies back again, tracing the water's surface with her fingertips.

She waits until the water has turned cold, then reluctantly pushes herself to her feet, stepping out of the basin. She squeezes out her drenched, golden hair, noticing the slight growth in it since she came back to Winterfell. It used to fall to her chest, but now cascades further, almost to her waist.

As she leaves the room, Rose wraps a gown around herself, catching a glimpse of the sunrise beaming through as she picks up her lantern from the windowsill. When she turns back to the hallway, she bumps into someone coming from the opposite end. Staggering back, she looks up to see Lorren, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"I'm sorry," she gasps, her heart thudding.

He looks her, up and down. "What're you doing out of your chambers?"

"I was . . . taking a bath."

Lorren's face twists from confusion to something much darker. Like an idea has flashed in his eyes, a sick, twisted idea. A smile stretching on his face, he stalks closer to her. Rose's blood runs cold, as she backs up against the window. "I'm heading back there, now," she croaks.

He shakes his head, smiling wider. Rose's jaw sets. Her fist clenches tighter around the lantern.

 _Not today._

Using all her strength, she slams the lantern against Lorren's head. The glass shatters all over his face, clattering to the floor, the flame burning out. He lets out a howl of pain, staggering into the wall. She uses the opportunity to race past him, her heart hammering in her chest. _Get to Theon. If you make it to Theon, he'll—_

"Stark bitch!" Lorren grabs her ankle, giving it a harsh pull. She lets out a yelp as she falls, with a slam to the ground, her head colliding with the wood. Stars appear in front of her vision, blackness swirling in, but she keeps struggling. She feels his rough hands on her waist, flipping her over onto her back, and then he's on top of her. His face, smeared in his own blood, snarls down at her.

 _This isn't happening. This isn't happening._

"Theon!" she screeches, but he covers her mouth with his meaty hand. She thumps at his chest, desperately, but he doesn't even flinch. His body weight is crushing her lungs, making it difficult to breath, and the pain, the dizziness in her head, makes it difficult to think.

She hears a ripping sound. Looking down, she renews her struggles when she sees him tearing off her gown, forcing his weight between her legs. "Please!" she screams, kicking out in all different directions. " _Please_!"

Lorren shoves his hand between her thighs, feeling there. "Little Theon doesn't have the balls to kill you himself. He'd rather keep you alive so he can fuck you whenever he likes. I bet you've wondered what it's like to fuck a _real_ man."

A sharp twinge of pain at her entrance makes her scream, a shrill, echoing scream that should wake the entirety of Winterfell. _Someone will hear me. Please, gods, let someone hear me_. Rose can see him fumbling with his belt, unbuckling it, reaching inside his trousers. "I'll show you what happens when you cross the Ironborn, girl."

Then, his lips are buried in the crook of her neck, biting, causing more sharp pain, his revolting scent all over her. It ripples through her entire body, shocking her into action. Lorren spreads her legs wider, forcing them apart with his own. He enters her then, in one swift movement, the pain too excruciating to describe . . .

"Rose!"

The voice comes from the opposite end of the hallway. It's him. But, she doesn't wait.

Fumbling around the floor beside her as Lorren rears back, ready to ram into her again, her hand closes around a shard of broken glass. Mustering all her strength, she lets out a shriek, then shoves the glass into the side of his neck.

The world falls silent. He stops moving inside her. Blood spurts from Lorren's neck, covering her, covering the floor around them. His eyes are wide in shock as he looks down at her, perplexed, then topples sideways.

Rose remains on the floor, catching her breath, listening to the sound of him bleeding out. But, she cannot bring herself to look at him. _She killed him. He tried to . . . but, she killed him_. The thought makes her shake, uncontrollably, trembling like she's never trembled before.

Theon's footsteps jolt the floorboards as he comes running towards her. He stands over her, his eyes wide in concern, scanning her. One look at him and a loud cry escapes her, the shock hitting her all at once. As she begins to sob, he's quickly at her side, pulling her into his arms.

* * *

"Don't bury his body. Feed it to the hounds, for all I care."

"He was a man of many faults, My Prince. But, Lorren was loyal to you. He deserves—"

"Loyal?" Theon repeats, bellowing. He rounds on Dagmer, his face twisting in rage. "He's been questioning my authority from the moment I stepped onto the Iron Islands! He's attacked _my_ hostage, went behind _my_ back—"

"Your father's men have been reeving and raping women since before you were born," Dagmer points out, irritated. "We take what we want. We always have done. What makes _her_ any different?"

Theon sighs, glancing behind him. Rose is sat on the bed, blankets wrapped around her, as Maester Luwin attends to the gash on her head. She hasn't spoken since he took her into his chambers, instead staring, hollowly at the opposite wall, unseeing everything around her. At least she's stopped crying and batting away anyone who tries to touch her.

Theon turns back to Dagmer. "She's a Lady of Winterfell."

" _Was_ ," he corrects, fiercely. "Winterfell no longer belongs to the Starks. It belongs to you."

He stares, thinking for a moment, then squares his shoulders. "I've made my decision. Make sure the rest of the men know. Anyone who touches hostages without my consent will be executed. Now, go. Attend to your duties."

Dagmer hesitates, peering back and forth between Theon and Rose. Eventually, he bows his head, turns and walks out the door, at a trudging pace.

Theon looks back to Rose, his expression unreadable. Finally, she blinks, catching his gaze, holding it for a steady second. Theon swallows. "Is she hurt?"

"He didn't get very far, if that's what you're asking," Rose croaks, bitterly.

Maester Luwin purses his lips. "Lady Rose needs plenty of rest, My Lord. Some peace and quiet would be a good start." He finishes tending to her wound, then stirs the milk of the poppy at her bedside.

Theon sighs, then turns to leave.

"Don't," Rose whispers, brokenly. He falters in the doorway, startled. "Don't go."

Maester Luwin and Theon exchange confused glances, but he steps back into the room with a lifted chin. "I'd like a word with her, alone," he commands. "Wait outside."

Luwin hesitates, looking to Rose. She gives him a small nod. He tries to smile, running his hand, softly over the back of her head. "My Lord," he briefly bows to Theon, sidesteps past him and leaves the room.

A thousand unspoken things hang in the air. Theon hovers, uncertain what to do with himself.

He looks up at her, alarmed to see fresh tears sliding down her cheeks. "I killed him," she mumbles, her voice cracking.

Theon shakes his head. "He was a vile man," he rasps. "He won't be missed."

"I've never felt that way before," she continues as if he never spoke. Her voice is so quiet, a fraction above a whisper, filled with tears. "Since I came back to Winterfell, I have been a hostage in my own home. I have been beaten and tormented, but not once, never have I felt so . . . _helpless_." She bites down on her lip. "The worst part is, I wanted to. I _wanted_ him dead. Just like I wanted you dead."

Theon sighs, sitting down at her bedside. "Rose—"

"You kept me here, under a roof with men who have raided cities, taken women and defiled them in the worst possible ways," she says, venomously. Her eyes finally snap up to meet his, drenched in hatred. "You knew that, and you let them into my _home_."

"If I knew . . ." Theon closes his eyes, shaking his head. "If I suspected _anything_ —"

"What would you have done?" Rose demands, trembling. "You said it yourself, you're Ironborn. You can't fight for Starks and Greyjoys both." She leans forward, ignoring the intense pain in her body, particularly the sharp throbbing between her legs that hasn't subsided yet. "You made a choice to stand beside _savages_ you barely know and betray the man you once considered a brother. You kept me hostage. You didn't kill me, and you call that a kindness. Now, what would you like to say? What would you like to say now that one of your men has _forced_ himself on me?"

Theon stares at her, stunned into silence.

Rose chokes on a humourless chuckle. "Nothing." She sucks in a deep, steadying breath, then wipes her face on the back of her hand. "Then, I'll say this. What happened to me today will _never_ happen again," she promises, fiercely. "I'll spend every waking minute trying to find a way to escape, to escape _you_ , so that I _never_ have to look at you, again. And then, I will go to my brother, and he will rally his armies and take back Winterfell by force."

At the end of her vicious speech, Theon flinches, clearly at a loss for words. He stares at her, with those same, adoring eyes that had looked at her on the cliffs all those years ago. The thought of it makes her want to bawl, but she won't give him the satisfaction of seeing her break down. _Not until he leaves the room. Wait until he's gone._

His face sets. Standing, he marches over to the door and flings it open, so it bangs against the wall. "She's all yours," he snaps at Maester Luwin. Without looking back, he flounces off down the hallway, leaving a hollow silence in his wake.

Luwin steps back into the room, looking to Rose for answers. She has nothing to say. Instead, she succumbs to the pain in her body, to the heartache, the shock of the night's events, and bursts into gut-wrenching tears, curling up on the bed.

* * *

 **A/N:** there are plenty of fictional works, TV shows and movies that throw in rape scenes and then forget about them two minutes later, without fully exploring the aftermath. Rest assured, that won't be the case here. This trauma will be with Rose for some time, and it will affect the choices she makes in later chapters.

Only one more episode to go!


	20. Valar Morghulis

**Valar Morghulis**

"Look around you, we're all liars here, and every one of us is better than you."

* * *

Maester Luwin raps on her door, but there's no response.

For the third time that week, he eases open the door, balancing the breakfast tray on one hand, and enters the room. She is curled up in bed, buried under a handful of blankets, her back to the door. Quietly, he crosses the room and puts the tray down on the table, picking up her untouched dinner plate from the previous night.

"Beautiful day," he muses, looking out the window. "Some fresh air will do you good."

Silence.

He turns around to look at her. Her eyes are wide open, staring at the floorboards, blinking, but not looking back at him. "I imagine your brothers are anxious to see you," he adds, thoughtfully.

She doesn't even flinch. Heaving a sigh, Luwin shuffles out of the room, shutting the door behind him. Rose waits until she hears the door click before she finally stirs.

Gently, she rolls onto her back, stretching out her limbs. There's still a considerable amount of soreness, but the pain has definitely faded over the past few days. The heaviness in her chest, the intense heartache, hasn't eased whatsoever. Every thought that crosses her mind is filled with the memory of him. Of his crushing weight, his hands, his breath. Staring up at the canopy, now, she can envision his bloodied face snarling down at her.

Wincing, she buries her face in her hands and takes a few deep breaths. _He's gone. He's dead. You killed him._ The thought should be satisfying, but it does nothing to comfort her.

Wrapping the blankets around herself, she gets to her feet and pads along the floorboards towards the window. It is, indeed, a beautiful day. She hasn't seen the sun shine over Winterfell's battlements since the day she arrived. Then the storm clouds had come, and all the rain.

Rose searches for him now, scanning the crowds down below. Her gaze settles on him near the gates, in deep conversation with Dagmer, gesturing wildly with his hands. She frowns, wondering why, then spots the burned bodies being sliced down from over the gates.

A part of her feels nauseous now, looking at their charred remains. Osha had told her he'd strung up the bodies of the farm boys and passed them off as her brothers. Although the fact that they're alive and well makes her dizzy with relief, the knowledge that Theon is capable of doing something like that—burning innocent boys—destroys any gentle illusions she ever had of him.

She closes her eyes, thinking back to before everything went wrong. Her kind, adventurous Theon who seemed just like the heroes in her storybooks. The boy who had pulled her up the rocks and kissed her atop of Winterfell, the man she had given her virtue to.

 _How could I have been so blind?_

* * *

Rose shudders, walking down the wooden staircase into the courtyard. Her heart hammers as heads turn to stare at her, the Ironborn nudging each other, some even pointing. But she's come too far to turn back now.

She reaches the bottom of the stairs and crosses the yard over to where Theon is stood, at the gates, still talking with Dagmer. He turns when he hears her approaching, his eyes widening in disbelief. "What are you doing out here?"

"I—I needed some air," she whispers, her voice hoarse. "I'd like to visit the Godswood."

Theon glances her, up and down, then looks to Dagmer. "I can send my guard to—"

"No," Rose splutters, too loudly, too quickly. "No guards." Her cheeks burn with humiliation as she realises how stupid her idea must sound. "I don't—um . . ." trailing off, she averts her tearful gaze to the ground.

Theon sighs, exasperated, but somewhat sympathetic. "Maester Luwin," he calls. Across the yard, Luwin comes rushing, clearly just as surprised at seeing Rose out of bed. "You'll escort Rose to the Godswood," Theon commands. "If you're not back within the hour, I'll send my men after you. D'you understand?"

Maester Luwin nods. He extends his arm to Rose. For a moment, she doesn't move. Then, slowly, she walks towards him, exhaling in relief when she doesn't flinch at his arm wrapping around her shoulder. Together, they walk through the gates of Winterfell, every eye on them.

* * *

"I'm not sure what I want to pray for."

"Whatever's on your heart."

Rose shakes her head, gazing out across the river. "I don't know what's on my heart," she murmurs. "Everything I've ever felt has come so clear to me. Pain, anger, happiness, love. Now, it's . . . it's as if my own mind is keeping secrets from me." Her face crumples as tears begin to slide, uncontrollably down her cheeks. "Like my body doesn't belong to it anymore. Like it doesn't belong to _me_."

Maester Luwin leans in closer to her, rubbing soothing circles on her back. "There is no shame in what happened to you. What matters is that you are alive. You will survive this."

"I don't know how," Rose sobs. "I don't know _why_ . . ."

He lets out a troubled sigh, falling silent for a thoughtful moment. The only sound that can be heard is her soft sobbing, echoing through the trees, underneath the running water.

"Sometimes, terrible things happen to the kindest people," Luwin muses, sadly. "We search for answers, we call out to all the gods, and we hear no reply. The only thing we can do is breathe through the pain and pray that it will make us stronger." He brushes her hair over her ear as her breathing evens out again. "I admire you very much, Rose. You're a very brave young woman. You _can_ get through this."

Rose wipes her face with her hands, brushing the tears aside. She takes a deep, trembling breath, then whispers, "I'd like to be alone for a while."

Maester Luwin purses his lips. "Of course." He kisses her head, then pushes himself up from the tree stump, looking out into the woods. "I won't go far."

She watches him walking away, his old age slowing him. A part of her leaves with him, the part that had been comforted by his words, that had found strength in them. Now, she is left shivering in the crisp air, feeling empty again.

Closing her eyes, she bows her head and lets her mind drift.

 _For Sansa, in King's Landing. Let her be safe. Let someone show her kindness, or mercy, should she need it._

 _For Arya, wherever she may be. Show me a sign. Anything to tell me that she's still alive._

 _For Bran, for Rickon. Let them be children. Don't make them grow up so fast._

 _For Robb, for mother, in the midst of war. Help them be brave. Help them make good choices, to save their home and win the war._

 _And for me. Remind me how to be strong._

* * *

"I will kill that man. I don't care how many arrows they feather me with, how many spears they run through me. I will kill that horn-blowing cunt before I fall."

"They want you to know you're surrounded."

"I know I'm surrounded," Theon growls. "I know that, because I stood on the battlements and saw I was surrounded."

Rose wraps the blanket tighter around herself, where she's perched on the windowsill. She looks out, into the blackness, seeing nothing, but hearing the sound of the horn, blasting through the gentle wind.

Maester Luwin sighs. "They don't want you to sleep. They want to sap your spirit before—"

"Thank you, wise bald man," Theon interrupts, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Thank you for explaining siege tactics to me." He stares, furiously, into the flames of the fireplace. "No word from my father?"

"No." Maester Luwin crosses the room, leaning against the wooden bedframe.

"Send more ravens."

Rose blinks. "Theon, you killed all of the ravens."

He doesn't look up. Instead, he sucks in a terse breath. "The first time I saw Winterfell . . ." he trails off when the horn blasts again, for the hundredth time, a murderous look in his eye. When it dies in the wind, he starts again, "first time I saw Winterfell, it looked like something that had been here for thousands of years, and would be here for thousands of years after I was dead. I saw it and I thought, of course, Ned Stark crushed our rebellion and killed my brothers. We never stood a chance against the man who lives here."

"Lord Stark went out of his way to make it your home," Luwin says, patiently.

"Yes, my captors were so very kind to me," Theon snaps. "You love reminding me of that." His gaze flits, briefly over to Rose, whose heart momentarily stops when he looks at her. "Everyone in this frozen pile of shit has always loved reminding me of that."

His eyes redden, filling with frustrated tears. "You know what it's like to be told how lucky you are to be someone's prisoner? To be told how much you owe _them_? And then to go back home to your real father . . ."

For a moment, Rose thinks he will burst into tears. Then, the horn resounds again, louder this time. Theon's head snaps to the side. He leaps out of his seat, taking both of them by surprise, and storms up to the window. "I will kill that man!" he screams. "I swear to the Drowned God, the Olds Gods, the New Golds, to every fucking god in every fucking heaven, I will kill that man!"

"Theon, listen to me," Luwin pleads, calmly. "I serve Winterfell. Now Winterfell is yours. I'm bound by oath to serve you."

Theon turns, tiredly. "And what's your counsel, trusted friend?"

"Run. Five hundred Northmen wait outside the walls. You have twenty men. You can't win. Wait for nightfall and run." Luwin's focus shifts to the window, where Rose is sitting, quietly, thinking to herself.

Theon approaches him, his brow furrowed. "There's nowhere to run. I'd never make it back to the Iron Islands. And, even if I did, even if by some miracle, I slipped through the lines and made it home, I'd be a coward. The Greyjoy who ran. The shame of the family." Defeated, he slumps back down into the armchair, staring, glumly into the fireplace.

Rose looks up, suddenly. "Well, then, don't go home," she suggests. The strength in her voice, which had been absent for days now, returns, causing both men to look at her in surprise. "You could join the Night's Watch."

Maester Luwin nods. He gets up and paces the room to Theon, leaning against the back of his armchair. "Once a man has taken the black, he's beyond the reach of the law," he points out, softly. "All his past crimes are forgiven."

"I wouldn't make it to the Wall," Theon grumbles. "I won't make it ten feet past the Winterfell gates."

"Not through the gates, then." Rose gets to her feet, keeping the blanket wrapped around her shoulders. "Into the passageways, the ones built so the Lord of Winterfell could escape. I know them. I studied them as a child."

"The road will be dangerous," Luwin notes. "But, with a little luck . . ." he rounds the chair to stand in front of Theon, looking him in the eye. "The Night's Watch is an ancient, honourable order. You'll have opportunities there."

Theon scowls, pushing himself to his feet. "The opportunity for Jon Snow to cut my throat in my sleep," he snaps.

"The opportunity to make amends for what you've done."

He pauses, thinking. "I've done a lot, haven't I? Things I never imagined myself doing." Again, he looks towards Rose. For a brief, fleeting moment, she can see her old Theon, the Theon who would silently hate himself for losing his temper with her, the Theon who regretted any hurtful words or actions that got him in trouble.

It hits her, so suddenly. Everything that he's done, she's been so consumed with the thought of him repenting. Does he feel guilty? Could he ever be redeemed? Perhaps not. But all the anger in her body seeps into something else. Fuels something in the pit of her belly that reminds her . . . she doesn't want him to die. She loathes herself for it, but she doesn't. Not truly.

Maester Luwin sighs, putting a hand on his shoulder. "I've known you many years, Theon Greyjoy," he mumbles. "You're not the man you're pretending to be. Not yet."

The room fills with silence, the only sound coming from the crackling fireplace. Rose lets out a steady breath, capturing Luwin's gaze. "Could we have a minute, alone?" she asks, quietly.

Luwin nods. He pats Theon on the back, then crosses the room and walks out the door, shutting it, gently behind him. Rose waits until he's gone. Theon doesn't look at her, instead collapsing back into the armchair. Rose stares at him for a while, then strips off her blanket and sets it back on the windowsill.

She stands in front of him, then kneels down. "He's right, Theon. We could go through the tunnels _together_ , take the road up to Castle Black—"

"Why would you do that?" he asks, quietly. "Leave your home, for me?"

Rose bites down on her lip. She has the sudden urge to cry, but swallows it back. "You've hurt me, more than anyone has hurt me in my whole life," she whispers. "You took my home, you beat me, you pretended that you'd killed my brothers—"

"Pretended?" he frowns.

Rose smiles, sadly. "I know those weren't their bodies over the gates."

He stares at her, perplexed. "How—?"

"It doesn't matter now," she sighs. Her breathing starts to hitch, the tears unstoppable. "Everything that you've done . . . I should hate you for it. But, it's true, that you're not the man you pretend to be."

Bravely, she slips her hands into his, tangling their fingers together. "Every time I look at you, I remember the sweet boy who kissed me over Winterfell. Who chased me through the Godswoods. Who fought with my brothers and teased my sisters, like they were your own siblings. And I remember the first time . . ." she blinks, trying to see him through the tears clouding her vision. His face fills with remorse. "The way you looked in my eyes," she whispers. "The way you kissed me when there was pain . . ."

Theon leans forward, his expression unreadable. Holding onto her hand, his other hand cradles her face, pulling their heads together so their foreheads touch. Rose freezes, surprised by the contact. She half-expects herself to push him away, but she wants him holding her, she wants to feel him close. His thumb brushes against her cheek.

"That man," she declares, looking him in the eye. " _That's_ the Theon Greyjoy I care for. _That's_ the Theon Greyjoy that I will leave Winterfell for. If you can find him for me, with what little time we have left . . ."

Theon lifts his head from hers. "Jon will cut me down the minute we reach Castle Black."

"I won't let him," she insists. "I'll tell him the truth about Bran and Rickon."

"He'll still kill me. For what I did to you." A single tear slides down his cheek.

Rose sighs, capturing it with the pad of her thumb. "What happened here, it will stay between us," she decides. "I _promise_. Just . . . run with me."

* * *

Maester Luwin and Rose hurry through the courtyard, keeping their eyes peeled for any Ironborn lingering about. But, it's practically a ghost town. "Theon's gathering some supplies," she murmurs, as they make their way down the stone stairs to the crypt.

"Steer clear of the Kingsroad. Go through the Wolfswood, past Deepwood Motte." He stops, abruptly, taking her by the shoulders and looking her, sternly in the eye. "Trust _no one_ with your identities. There are Northerners loyal to your brother, but others who wish to see Theon hanged."

Rose nods. "I know." She smiles, sadly, a lump forming in her throat. "Thank you, Maester."

He gives her hands a squeeze, then leads her through the darkened crypt. Her brothers are huddled behind the tombstone, looking up at her with sad eyes. One look, and she feels the urge to burst into tears, but forces them back. Instead, she turns to Osha, who is hovering, warily at their side.

"Keep hidden," she tells her. "No matter what you hear. Leave as soon as it's over. Take them to the Westerlands, to my brother Robb."

Osha frowns, shaking her head. "You said you didn't want to send them into a war zone."

"I know what I said," Rose breathes, frustrated. "But, we've run out of options."

Osha peers at her. After a moment of thought, she nods, but averts her gaze, clearly still doubtful. Rose kneels down on the floor in front of her brothers, setting down the lantern at her side.

"Can't we go with you?" Rickon pouts.

She runs a hand through his curls. "It's not safe. Theon needs to get to the Wall as quickly as possible and . . ." she trails off, feeling horrible.

Bran sighs. "We'll slow you down," he confesses. "I know."

Rose takes either of their hands, squeezing them, tightly. "Wait until the fighting's over. Promise you'll do as Osha tells you. When you get to the Westerlands, tell Robb . . ." she bites down on her lower lip, the thought of him sending floods of pain through her chest. "Tell mother—"

"We will," Bran assures.

Rose smiles, feeling the tears trickling down her cheeks. She tugs them into her arms, holding them so tight, she's surprised they can still breathe. They remain that way for a moment too long, their shadows entwined on the ground, until she finally pulls apart and kisses them both on the forehead.

"I love you both." She pushes herself to her feet, forcing a smile. "I'll see you soon." Turning her head, she spots Hodor standing, watching her with curiosity. With a watery chuckle, she places a hand on his cheek. "Goodbye, gentle giant."

He chuckles, mirthfully. "Hodor."

One final goodbye. She holds her lantern up, to where the three direwolves are huddled in the corner. Hope sits at the front, her big sad eyes looking up at her, glistening over. Rose instantly leaps forward, wrapping her arms around the enormous creature, burying her face in her soft, golden fur.

"You watch out for them," she whispers. When she pulls her head back, Hope gives her cheek a timid lick, making her giggle. "You protect them. And I'll see you again."

Hope lets out a low whine. Rose pecks a kiss onto her nose and straightens up again.

She looks around at them, her family, one last time. Then, Maester Luwin gestures with his arm, reminding her of the deadline. Quickly, she picks up the lantern and, without looking back, follows him through the crypt, and back up the stone steps.

* * *

When they enter the courtyard, Theon is crossing it from the staircase, no longer wearing his traditional Ironborn armour, but donning fur and leather. "What were you doing in the crypts?" he asks, frowning.

"Just . . . saying goodbye," Rose breathes. She looks up, then pulls her cloak up to cover her head. "It'll be sunrise, soon. We have to leave."

"Follow me," Luwin orders.

Theon and Rose hurry after him, glancing around for any sign of Ironborn men, under the early birdsong, the sun lifting over the turrets. They weave their way through the Keep, down the hallways, until they reach a room close to the Lord's Chambers. Luwin yanks out his keys and unlocks the door, swinging it open to reveal an empty room, with a single door built into the floorboards, three times the size of any other door.

"The tunnels exit at Wolfswood," he mumbles, leaning down to open it. "Follow them around until you reach the door. There'll be horses waiting for you outside."

Rose nods, looking down at the large, rickety steps, seeing the clear mark of hooves imprinted on them. "Thank you," she says. "For all of this."

Maester Luwin smiles at her, fondly. She pulls him into a hug, trying to push the thought aside that she'll never see him again, but failing miserably. When she draws away, Luwin and Theon are left to stare, awkwardly at one another. Theon turns to head down the staircase, but Luwin grabs his arm. "Look after her," he warns.

His cheeks burning a little, Theon says nothing, but nods. Without another word, he nudges Rose towards the door, who catches one last glimpse of Maester Luwin, before heading down the staircase, into the blackness.

She stumbles a little when she reaches the last step, unable to see, but Theon grabs onto her cloak from behind, straightening her up. He reaches the bottom, the light from his flaming torch glaring in the darkened tunnel. It's wide, wider than any of the hallways in Winterfell, perhaps to allow horses to travel through.

Rose can hear the door shutting above them. Silence consumes them, the sound of their breathing echoing against the walls. "Come on," Theon murmurs. He grabs her hand and together, they hurry down the seemingly endless tunnel.

* * *

Theon fidgets with the lock until it finally clicks open, pushing against the door so the sunrise streams in. Rose squints, her eyes hurting for a moment, stretching out her hand. He grabs it and begins to lead her up the stairs.

When they emerge, she takes in her surroundings, trying to place familiar things. They're definitely in the Wolfswood, somewhere near the Kingsroad. Two horses wait for them, as promised, one of whom the white beauty she'd ridden from King's Landing. Gently, she runs a hand over her face, causing her to lightly buck into her embrace.

She turns, wondering why Theon is being so quiet. Following his gaze, she lets out a little gasp.

Winterfell has never looked so vulnerable, surrounded by the Northern forces. She can see it through the opening of the trees, but is too far away to make out the banners. Slowly, she steps forward so she's standing at Theon's side.

Her heart aching, Rose slips her hand into his, interlacing their fingers. He turns his head to look at her, his expression unreadable. A small smile crosses his lips as, unknowingly, they share the same thought.

Him and her, climbing atop of Winterfell, like they did when they were children. Reaching so high, she's surprised they're not buried in the clouds.

* * *

 **A/N:** I DID WARN YOU STORYLINES WOULD BE ALTERED!

I am so, so relieved this season is through because it's been a rough one for Rose. Although Theon's fate took a very different turn, his suffering is definitely not over. He still has a lot of apologising and making up to do. Honestly, I'm looking forward to tormenting him a bit.

Again, there will be a wait as I make the finishing touches to season three. I really hope you enjoyed this season as much as I loved writing (most of) it. Please leave a review, make some suggestions—I love hearing them! And see you all very soon!


	21. Valar Dohaeris

**A/N:** welcome to season three! I had a very specific plan for this season, which involves a lot of road-tripping and a lot of reunions. Rose had a pretty rough time last season, so I tried to go easier on her! Theon, on the other hand, still has a hell of a lot of apologising to do. Enjoy this first episode!

This chapter contains explicit sexual content and reference to sexual violence.

* * *

 **Valar Dohaeris**

"Death by fire is the purest death."

* * *

 _She feels his rough hands on her waist, flipping her over onto her back, and then he's on top of her. His face, smeared in his own blood, snarls down at her . . ._

 _She thumps at his chest, desperately, but he doesn't even flinch. His body weight is crushing her lungs, making it difficult to breath, and the pain, the dizziness in her head, makes it difficult to think . . ._

 _She hears a ripping sound. Looking down, she renews her struggles when she sees him tearing off her gown, forcing his weight between her legs. "Please!" she screams, kicking out in all different directions. "Please!"_

* * *

Hands clasp her shoulders. The ground beneath her falls away, sucking her out of the darkness, plunging her into the light. Air gushes into her so suddenly, she splutters on it, springing upwards into a sitting position. The smell of the forest, the dew and the charred remains of the fire ground her senses.

He holds onto her shoulders, looking down at her in concern. "Rose?"

She sniffles, her breath trembling. "Sorry," she gasps.

Theon says nothing, keeping a hold of her while her breathing evens out. She's too embarrassed to look him in the eye, so she focuses her attention on the dirt ground, the warm colours of the leaves blanketing it.

His jaw clenches, and he straightens into a standing position. "We overslept," he sighs. "We've got to keep moving." He crosses over to where their horses are tied to the trunk of an oak tree.

Rose rubs her eyes with the heel of her hand, sleepily. "The Northern armies are long gone, now."

"They'll be searching for us. And we're a long way from Castle Black." He turns, watching Rose as she pushes herself to her feet and brushes herself down, the exhaustion slowing her. "Hurry up."

"Alright," Rose breathes. "Keep your breeches on."

She walks over to the horses, giving hers a gentle stroke. When she wanders to its side, Theon suddenly puts his hands on her waist, ready to hoist her up. Her heart momentarily stops. Taking even herself by surprise, she flinches out of his touch, backing up against her horse. "I can do it myself," she mumbles.

Theon drops his hands, glaring as she starts to mount. "Not allowed to _talk_ to you, not allowed to _touch_ you—"

"Just because I agreed to leave with you, doesn't mean I'm not quietly plotting your murder," she hisses.

Theon frowns, adjusts in his saddle, and gives his horse a gentle tap with his foot to get him trotting. Side by side, they begin riding down the slope of the forest, keeping in stride with one another. "Isn't the entire point of us leaving Winterfell to keep me alive?"

"Maybe. Or, it was a clever ruse to lure you out into the woods, where I could finish you off myself before the Northerners got their hands on you."

"If you wanted me dead, you'd have slit my throat in my sleep."

Rose shrugs. "Hmh. Lacks originality."

Theon scoffs, angrily. "You're impossible."

Rose allows herself a triumphant smirk, as her horse picks up the pace, galloping softly through the forest, the memories of her dream fading with each passing second.

* * *

They ride for almost an hour when they finally come across a small opening in the forest. For a moment, Rose is relieved, but when she looks out at the vast nothingness, the wide spread of empty land, she frowns. "Where are we?"

"We should be getting close to Deepwood Motte," Theon mumbles.

"All I see is wood." She sighs as he looks, wildly around him, squinting to see past the horizon. "Theon, we've been travelling for days, now. I got myself to Winterfell from King's Landing in a shorter time than this."

Theon scowls. "Maybe if we didn't stop to rest every five minutes—"

"It's a dangerous ride, from here to Castle Black. We're not taking the Kingsroad. If we don't rest, or keep ourselves fed, we'll never make it there alive." She purses her lips. "Admit it. We're lost."

"We're _not_ lost," Theon snarls. He turns away from her, still frantically scanning the fields. Eventually, he lets out an aggravated sigh, gritting his teeth. "We should find the nearest village."

Rose rolls her eyes. "And what? Stop at an inn, declare yourself Theon Greyjoy in the hope that they'll fill your belly and find some whore to lick your cock?" The words are tumbling out before she can stop herself, more vicious than she intended.

Theon's head snaps round to glare at her. "Do you think me a fool?"

"You don't want me to answer that."

"Forgive me, if I'd like to sleep in a bed that isn't made of dirt or leaves."

Rose chuckles, humourlessly. "You're a priss. A priss, _and_ a fool."

"Shut up," Theon snaps, harshly. She flinches, the tone in his voice drawing her back to Winterfell, all those painful, horrid memories seeping through. Blushing, Rose drops her gaze, nibbling, anxiously on her lip. Theon clenches the reins, irritated. "We'll keep riding until we reach the next village. Then, we'll stop to get something decent to eat. I'm sick of burnt rabbit."

Rose nods, silently. He stares at her for a long moment, but she doesn't meet his gaze. Without another word, he tugs on the reins, galloping past her and heading back into the forest.

* * *

Rose tucks her golden braid beneath her hood, stepping gingerly inside the inn. Although her heart hammers against her chest, she forces a smile, walking straight up to the innkeeper seated behind the bar. "Seven blessings," he greets. "Something I can help you with?"

Theon dumps a small string bag of silver on the bar. "A room. Any room, for me and my . . ." he trails off, giving Rose a sideways glance, before settling on, "wife."

She bites her lip to refrain from laughing.

"Of course. Where is it you're heading?"

"The Gift," Theon lies, effortlessly. "We have family in Mole's Town."

The innkeeper nods, fumbling with his ring of keys, plucking one out. "You're well away from there, I'm afraid."

Rose giggles, nervously. "In truth, we've lost our bearings a little." Feeling stupid, she asks, "Can you tell us where we are?"

"Ironrath. Nearest castle from here is Deepwood Motte. Such a shame . . . littered with Ironborn scum. Still, nothing to worry about here." He turns to Theon, giving him a pat on the back. "You and your wife can sleep easy tonight. This way."

Theon swallows, saying nothing. Rose plasters on a smile. "Thank you." Together, they follow the innkeeper up the rickety staircase.

* * *

"I don't think he suspected us."

Theon grins. "I'm a good liar."

Rose rubs her hands together, then holds them out, in front of the fireplace. The warmth feels strange against her cold skin — they'd spent so much time in the damp and cold, it's a pleasant sensation she'd almost forgotten. "Honourable people don't travel through the woods."

"Reckless people do."

She tilts her head to look at him. "You think me reckless?"

Theon straightens into a standing position, shrugging out of his tunic. "The Northern armies never would have laid a finger on you," he says. "Yet, you ran with me without a second thought." He crouches back down by the fire, letting out an idle groan at the radiating heat.

"If you'd have run and left me behind, your men would have killed me to spite you."

"Five hundred Northern men. And only twenty Ironborn." Theon shakes his head, sighing. "They'd have betrayed me, too, had I stayed."

"Like you betrayed Robb."

Theon angles his head to stare at her. She looks him in the eye, her heart plunging to her stomach when hurt crosses his face. Then, he turns away from her, fixated on the flames. "Truthfully, did he send you back to Pyke?" she asks, softly. "Or, did you leave on your own accord?"

"He sent me." He rolls his eyes at the dubious look on her face. "He _sent_ me. An alliance with my father could have won him the war."

Rose smiles, sadly. "Well, the war isn't over, yet."

Theon rubs his hands on his thighs, then pushes himself to his feet. "We should get some sleep," he grumbles. "We'll move at first light."

Rose straightens, watching, warily as he removes his shirt and tosses it over the chair near the fireplace. He begins to tug on the bedsheets, plumping the pillows and untucking the linen. "There's only one bed," she murmurs.

"So?" He glances up. Rose has her arms wrapped around herself, her gaze cast to the floor, her entire posture rigid. "Rose, we've been far more intimate than sleeping side by side," he points out, exasperated.

"That was different," she whispers, her cheeks glowing pink.

Theon stares at her, but she doesn't look at him. When her eyes start glistening over, he lets out a frustrated sigh. "I'll sleep in the chair," he relents. "But, I get the pillows." He swipes them from the bed and drops them into the rocking chair, adjusting them to his liking.

Rose lets out a breath. "Fine. Thank you."

Theon nods, sitting down with a slouch. He leans back, admiring the fire, thinking deeply to himself. Rose peers at him for a moment. Pushing aside her fears, she approaches the bedside and begins to undress, her back to him. Her hands trembling, she unbuttons her shirt, then shimmies out of her riding breeches, leaving her in her undergarments.

Fully aware that he is watching her now, she kicks her clothes aside and quickly ducks under the covers, without looking at him.

* * *

 _Lorren shoves his hand between her thighs, feeling there . . ._

 _A sharp twinge of pain at her entrance makes her scream, a shrill, echoing scream that should wake the entirety of Winterfell. Someone will hear me. Please, gods, let someone hear me. Rose can see him fumbling with his belt, unbuckling it, reaching inside his trousers . . ._

" _I'll show you what happens when you cross the Ironborn, girl."_

 _Then, his lips are buried in the crook of her neck, biting, causing more sharp pain, his revolting scent all over her. It ripples through her entire body . . ._

 _Lorren spreads her legs wider, forcing them apart with his own. He enters her then, in one swift movement, the pain too excruciating to describe . . ._

* * *

"Rose. _Rose_!"

She can still feel his hands all over her, pushing everywhere, when her eyes snap open, her throat aching with screaming. Theon's hovering over her, shielding everything from view with his bare chest. "Rose," he whispers.

She shakes her head, burying her face in the pillow as gut-wrenching sobs shake her frame. She can't breathe, but she doesn't care. She just wants everything to disappear, to stop feeling _him_.

Theon rubs comforting circles on her back, his brow furrowed. "Come here," he says, eventually. Tugging her away from the pillows, he pulls her into his arms, holding her against his chest. Slowly, he leans back against the bedframe.

Rose grips onto him, wetting his chest with her tears. "I'm sorry," she whimpers.

"Shut up," he mutters into her hair. "It was a dream. You're alright."

Rose shakes her head. "It wasn't a dream," she gasps between sobs. "It happened, it's going to keep h—happening . . . forever." Her words drown in another flood of tears.

"No," Theon insists. "Never again. I should have . . ." he trails off, heaving a long, shaking breath. "I should have protected you better," he confesses, quietly. "You were right. I let those men invade your home. Men who have been reeving and raping longer than I've been breathing."

"Please," Rose sniffles. She angles her head on his chest so she can look up at him, her tear-stained cheeks glistening in the dim light of the dying fire. "Don't blame yourself," she whispers. "I never should have said — it's not your fault."

"It is." Theon cradles her face in his hand, keeping his eyes, fixed on hers. "But, no one's going to touch you again," he promises, fiercely. "I swear it, by the old gods and the new. You're safe, with me."

Rose stares up at him. Her hand is pressed against his bare chest, feeling the warmth there. His heartbeat thumps gently beneath her palm. The memories of her dreams, they haunt her still, ripping through her vision, making reality disconcerting. But the feelings swelling in her chest are overwhelming.

She grabs onto the back of his neck and pulls Theon's head down, pressing her lips against his. She feels him gasping into her mouth but doesn't stop. Her arms circle around his neck, and he releases a deep moan into her mouth, his own hands falling on her waist. Their tongues dance together, their breath colliding in this unexpected heat.

For Rose, the moment is met with a deep sense of release. Everything that has passed between them, from arriving at to escaping Winterfell, explodes in one, deep kiss. It's not enough. She needs more.

Flinging her leg around, Rose mounts him, his hands sliding lower than her waist to support her. She can feel his member beginning to harden beneath her. Gripping tightly onto him, their mouths meshing, she rubs herself against him in a steady rhythm, feeling ripples of pleasure coursing through her. Theon's hands guide her hips, moving her into a faster pace, drawing her to and fro. "Gods, Rose," he gasps into her mouth.

Involuntarily, she shudders. Suddenly, she's terrified, confused with her arousal, but rejecting his body completely. Two strong urges, the first to ride him until her senses are drowning with him, the second, to get up and sprint out of the room before he can lay another finger on her, disturb her. _Get a grip. This is Theon. He would never . . ._

Theon uses his body weight to roll over, so she is rested on her back, his weight resting on top her. Rose's legs wrap around his waist, feeling him pressing against her, causing her to moan out in pleasure as he continues to roll his hips.

And, then, it's no longer Theon. It's Lorren, with his revolting breath, biting at her neck and pushing her down, down against the floorboards. His words in her ear, spreading her legs open, ramming into her —

Rose suddenly feels cold. She opens her eyes, wondering why. Theon has lifted his head, looking down at her for the first time, his brow furrowed. She opens her mouth to say something but is interrupted when a loud, heavy sob cracks through her chest. Her face is soaking. _Have I been crying this whole time?_

"Rose," he whispers, startled.

"It's alright," she pleads. Her hands slide, desperately over his face. "It's alright, just —"

"No." Theon pulls back, drawing himself away from her. His legs swing over the side of the bed, his feet planting on the ground. "I shouldn't have . . . you're not ready."

Rose keeps still against the pillows, watching him. He catches his breath, staring out of the window, listening to the soft sound of her sniffling. After he gathers control of himself, he finally looks down at her. A small, weak smile crosses his lips. His hand stretches out and rests against her belly, his thumb stroking against the exposed skin.

"We don't have to rush," Theon says. "We can wait. _I'll_ wait, however tempting you may be." He lets out a chuckle.

Rose wipes her face on her hands, nodding. "That sounds like a good idea." A genuine smile plays on her lips. "You can share the bed if you like."

"You won't push me out in my sleep?"

"No." Rose giggles, her breath hitching with it. She leans over and covers the hand placed against her stomach, feeling his soft skin beneath her palm. Theon slips his fingers through hers and gives her hand a gentle squeeze.

With one last smile, she turns over onto her side, shifting further along the bed, ducking back under the covers. She flinches when she feels his weight pressing down on the other side of the bed, but then his arm drapes over her body, pulling her close to him.

It feels safe. It feels good, but not quite better.


	22. Dark Wings, Dark Words

**A/N:** sorry for the chapter delay! Contains strong violence.

* * *

 **Dark Wings, Dark Words**

"I imagine it must be so exciting to squeeze your finger here and watch something die over there."

* * *

"You're certain?"

The innkeeper nods, grimly. "Word spread sometime after the Battle of the Blackwater. Most alliances result in a marriage or two."

"I thought the King was to wed Sansa Stark," Rose says, struggling to keep her voice steady.

"Tossed her aside. I can't imagine he'd want the daughter of an alleged traitor like Eddard Stark, Gods rest his soul."

Rose flinches. "But, she's still in King's Landing?" she presses. "She didn't come back to the North?"

The innkeeper shakes his head, drawing Rose's breakfast plate away from her and setting it behind the counter. "There hasn't been a Stark in Winterfell since those poor boys were butchered," he sighs. "Robb Stark is still in Harrenhal, last I heard."

Rose opens her mouth to keep questioning until she feels a gentle hand on her back. "Let's get moving," Theon grumbles. He flashes her a warning look as he fastens her cloak around her shoulders.

She forces a smile, getting to her feet. "Thank you," she says to the innkeeper, who gives them a wave, then they head out into the morning sunrise.

"You shouldn't be asking questions," Theon says, trudging over to where their horses are tied up, outside of the inn.

Rose bites her lip. "He said Joffrey set my sister aside. That he's marrying Margaery Tyrell of Highgarden. Which means Sansa is nothing more than a prisoner in King's Landing." The realisation dawns on her like a stab to the chest, no longer hiding the concern from her face.

"If you go back there, you'll be one, too," Theon points out.

"I promised I'd come back to her," Rose hisses. "I can't let fear get in the way."

Theon stops fidgeting with the saddle of his horse, turning to her with a furrowed brow. "You should go to Robb," he insists. "He'll protect you."

"But my sister is all alone." She shakes her head, swallowing back the lump forming in her throat. "You don't know what it was like there. The things they did to us . . . to _her_." Her mind flashes with images of Sansa in that throne room, Joffrey taunting her, Ser Meryn tearing at her clothes. What fresh horrors has he subjected her to since she left? It makes her feel sick to think about it.

Theon sighs. He jerks his head. "Come on."

Rose tightens her cloak, then reluctantly steps to her horse's side. Before she can protest, Theon gently takes ahold of her waist and lifts her onto the saddle, his hands lingering on her for a moment. She opens her mouth to complain, but thinks better of it, and gives him a small, grateful smile, instead.

* * *

"The entire time, they were in the crypts?"

"Right under your nose." Rose suppresses a smirk. "Clever, really."

Theon clenches his jaw. "Even if I knew, it'd have taken me days to find them," he complains. "The bloody vaults are larger than Winterfell itself." He turns when Rose lets out an exasperated sigh at his side. "What?"

"You always have to prove yourself," Rose chuckles. "Prove you're the smartest, or the bravest, or the most powerful. You hate the thought of my baby brothers outsmarting you."

"If they were smart, they'd have fled," he snaps. "Not hidden in plain sight."

Rose's smile fades. She tugs, gently on the reins, and her horse comes to an abrupt stop beneath her. Theon halts a short distance ahead of her, looking at her with a confused frown. "And what would you have done?" Rose asks, softly. "Had you truly found them."

Theon averts his gaze. "I thought we were done with this conversation."

"We've been _avoiding_ this conversation," she protests. "So much happened in Winterfell. And not just between us." Theon remains silent, fidgeting with his reins. She puffs out a sigh. "Tell me the truth."

After a moment's thought, he finally looks up, his eyes soft. "I couldn't even hurt those farm boys," he confesses. "I ordered Dagmer to do it. To slit their throats, then burn their bodies. If I had found your brothers . . . I wouldn't have had the guts to lay a finger on them." His voice is so quiet, it's barely above a whisper.

Rose feels a surge of relief. "I knew that," she says. "I just needed to hear you say it." Giving her horse a gentle kick, it walks at a steady pace up the sloping hill.

Theon grins. "Can you ever forgive me for it?"

Rose thinks. "Ask me again when we get to Castle Black," she says, coyly. Tilting her head, she gives him a suggestive smile, which makes him chuckle. "For what it's worth, mercy doesn't make you weak. The strongest people I know are the most forgiving."

"Well, you're the strongest person that _I_ know," Theon insists.

Rose feels her cheeks warming. "I care too much," she whispers. "Sometimes, _that_ makes me weak."

Theon's eyes narrow. He opens his mouth to respond, but it turns into a soundless gasp when an arrow flies past his head and hits the tree in front of him. Rose's heart plummets to her stomach at the sound of horse hooves galloping, furiously towards them.

"Go!" Theon bellows.

Kicking into action, Rose's horse takes off at a sprint beneath her, thundering along the forest floor. The cold wind slaps against her face, distorting her vision, but she doesn't care. Her heart pounds with each gallop. She can hear the men pursuing them, shouting orders at one another, and Theon, racing at her side.

She's never ridden like this before, never felt so panicked in her life. _Keep going, keep going, keep going_. The world slips away, the closer they come to the mouth of the forest. For a fleeting moment, she believes she'll make it.

Then the sound of an arrow comes shooting towards her. It punctures something, she can hear it. Her horse lets out a shriek beneath her, blood beginning to spill from its neck. Then, it flips so quickly, Rose hears herself hitting the forest floor before she feels it. The pain slams up her right side, from her hip to her head, the weight of the bleeding horse crushing her, momentarily, before it spasms away.

The sound of hooves comes to a stop, but the ringing in her ears makes it difficult to tell just how close they are. Until rough hands grab her by the shoulders and haul her to her feet. "Get up."

"Don't touch her!"

There's the unmistakable sound of flesh hitting flesh and Theon's howl of pain.

"No!" Rose screams, her throat constricting. "Leave him alone, please, leave him—"

"Your sweetheart will get a lot worse than that if the Boltons are hunting him," comes a sneering voice.

The world comes into focus. The first thing she sees is her horse, still on the dirt ground, surrounded by the blood spewing from its neck. There are three men, one of them holding onto her, another standing over Theon, who has collapsed onto the floor, blood streaming from his nose. His horse is nowhere to be seen.

The third man, the largest, stands in front of her, with a leering smile. "Such a pretty thing," he muses. His meaty hand reaches out and grabs her waist. Leaning in, his face buries in her neck, inhaling her scent. He draws away, letting out a lustful groan. "Nothing like a blonde on her back."

Rose flinches but is too weak to protest.

"Search them!"

The hands holding her spin her around, feeling up and down her sides. He shoves his hands into the pockets of her riding breeches, yanking out her small flask and bags of silver. Rose bites down on her lip to refrain from tearing up. _Keep it together. Don't let them see you cry._

"Let's see who we've got. What's your name, boy?"

Theon is pulled to his feet, staggering a little. "Snow."

"Your first name, bastard."

"Rickard. Rickard Snow." The lie rolls easily off his tongue.

"And your pretty little friend —?"

The soldier holding onto Rose lets out a raspy chuckle. "Easy, Edric."

"Oh, I'm not touching anything, yet. We'll see how quick she is at remembering her name." He advances on her, then twirls a lock of her hair around his finger. Rose flinches from his touch. "Who're you, beautiful?"

 _The Boltons . . . they're Bolton soldiers. And Houses loyal to the Boltons . . ._

"I . . . Lyanna Dustin," she blurts out, not fast enough.

"Dustin?" His hand freezes in her hair, then drops back down to his side, suspicion crossing his face. "What's their sigil?"

"Two longaxes, crossed beneath a black crown, on a field of yellow."

Edric stares at her, his brow furrowed. Rose holds her breath, the pain twinging throughout her body burning more intensely with each passing second. _Please, please, please._ Finally, his face breaks out into a smile. "You're a long way from home, Lady Dustin."

Rose exhales. "We left, together," she whispers, glancing at Theon. He stares back at her with a mild look of relief.

"To go camping?" Edric sneers.

"To get married."

"Married?" he chuckles, peering back and forth between the two of them. He takes two small strides towards her, so she can feel his breath on her face. "We've been looking for a lad and a girl, just like the pair of you. Rumour has it Prince Theon took off with the Rose of Winterfell, abandoning his men, fleeing from the Northern armies. Heading to the Wall, it seems. You seen them?"

"No," Rose answers, instantly.

Edric sucks in a breath. "The King in the North is eager to get his sister back. Even more so to see Greyjoy's head on a spike." Rose feels tears brimming in her eyes. Every time she hears her brother's name, her heart aches with the need to see him again. She blinks the tears, fiercely away, and lifts up her chin, mustering what little dignity she has left. "So . . . anything you'd care to share?" Edric asks. Both Rose and Theon shake their heads, remaining silent. "No? Bind them up!" he shouts, suddenly, making Rose jump. "Gently, handling the Lady."

The soldier grabs Rose by her upper arm and hauls her, tripping and stumbling, over to their horses. He forces her hands behind her back, tying them tightly in roped knots, then pushes her back to the ground, sitting her up against a moss-covered rock. At her side is Theon, who slips his bound hand over hers in a comforting gesture.

"Got a blade?" he asks, under his breath.

Subtly, she shakes her head. "It's in my satchel." Rose looks over to where the men are rummaging through their bags, whispering to one another, urgently.

"Tell them who you are," Theon sighs.

"What?"

"They won't hurt you," he insists. "They'll take you to your mother and brother."

"And kill _you_ ," Rose hisses, furiously.

Their gazes meet. Theon stares her out, a subtle rage in his eye.

"A Lady and a bastard," Edric coos, triumphantly. "Not bad, at all, for a day's work." He crosses the forest floor, standing over the prisoners with a wry smile. He looks Theon, up and down. "You've got some muscle to you, lad. Robb Stark's forces need more men like you."

Theon's jaw clenches. "I've no intention to serve—"

"Edric! Look at this!"

Rose lets out a breath, grateful that Theon hadn't the chance to finish his sentence—one wrong word, and his head would be rolling across the ground. Across from them, one of the Bolton soldiers has Theon's sword in hand, holding it up to the sunlight. Edric swipes it from him and lets out a low whistle. "Nice," he compliments. "Very nice." Turning, he gives Theon a jeering look. "What's a bastard like you doing with a sword like this?"

"It was my father's," he says, instantly.

"Look at the sigil."

Edric examines the hilt of the sword and goes very, very still. Silence fills the forest, not even the trees rustling in the breeze. It's as if the entire world has stopped. "Ironborn," he murmurs. He walks, in four large strides, to where they are sitting, leans down and grabs Theon by the back of his hair, yanking his head back. "We've been looking for you, Greyjoy," he snarls, right in his face.

"Don't hurt him!" Rose begs, unable to stop herself.

Edric rounds on her. "Rose Stark." He smiles a wide, toothless smile. "Your mummy's been worried sick about you."

"To the King?"

Edric reaches out and grabs Rose's arm, and she lets out a pained yelp as he drags her to her feet. "To hell with the King! He's headed for Riverrun. The journey's long, and winter is coming. I say we take them straight to Bolton's bastard."

"We're completely sure it's them? Because if it's not —"

"Who's in charge here?" Edric bellows, his face turning red. " _That's_ Ironborn scum if I ever did see it, and him plus the Lady, that'll pocket me enough to last a lifetime. But if you haven't the balls, I'll take it all for myself, and maybe Ramsay will let me fuck the girl before sending her back to her brother."

The soldier strides towards him, his face twisted in frustration. "Robb Stark finds out we sent his little sister to that savage bastard and we'll all lose our heads." He looks Rose, up and down. "No pretty cunt is worth that."

Edric tuts, irritated. "Alright, alright. To the King in the North, it is."


	23. Walk of Punishment

**Walk of Punishment**

"There is a beast in every man and it stirs when you put a sword in his hand."

* * *

The miles between the North and Riverrun span over days, without a moment to rest at night. Rose is seated on Edric's horse, perched just in front of him as he takes the reins from behind, the two other Bolton soldiers—Conran and Tam, they're called — riding on either side of them. Theon is forced to walk at the horse's side, his hands bound, yanked along the road, tripping and stumbling in the exhaustion.

"How far from here?" Rose whispers, hoarsely.

"We'll get there before sunset." Tam peers over his shoulder, sneering. "Say your final prayers, Greyjoy. You'll die tonight."

Conran gives Rose a sideways glance. "He captured you, then," he muses. "Thought he'd take some Northern arse on the road with him?"

"It's none of your business," Rose hisses, through gritted teeth. She can feel the blood simmering in her veins, the rage in the pit of her belly.

"What would Robb Stark think of his little sister, spreading her legs for an Ironborn?"

Rose glares at him. "You can ask him before I tell him to cut out your tongue."

"Enough," Edric grumbles. "You're giving me a fucking headache, the pair of you."

Conran shares one last scowl with her, then looks away, his attention shifting to Theon, who continues to stumble at his side. With a cackle, he yanks at the ropes, causing him to lurch forward, falling flat on his face.

"Stop it!" Rose yells. She leaps off the horse, staggering a little.

"Get back here," Edric snaps.

She ignores him, kneeling at Theon's side. His face is coated in dirt but is hollow of expression. Her heart aching, she helps him to his feet. "I'll walk," she declares. "To stretch my legs."

Edric shrugs. "Suit yourself."

Rose keeps ahold of Theon's arm. "Are you alright?" she asks, softly. He doesn't respond, staring emptily at the trees ahead. "I won't let them hurt you, you know that."

"It's your brother's word against yours," he says, flatly. "If he wants my head, he'll have my head."

"I'll explain to him about Bran and Rickon. I'll tell him the truth—"

"About those farm boys I killed?" His voice trembles. "Or Ser Rodrick, who I beheaded?"

She flinches at the sudden gush of memories but quickly pushes them aside. "Robb considered you a brother once," she whispers. "There's nothing that's gone on that words can't solve."

Theon hums a laugh. "You can't believe that."

"I do. I _do_ ," she insists. "Don't you lose faith in me yet, Theon Greyjoy."

A small smile tugs at his lips. "Never."

* * *

She can't help herself — her heart picks up an excited pace as they draw closer to the castle of Riverrun. It's not as large as the Red Keep, but a strong building made of sandstone walls, with a moat bigger than any Rose has ever seen surrounding it. And the woods next to it is a swarm of elms, redwoods, wildflowers, and streams. The great, redwood doors lower, joining at the edge of the bridge at the sight of Bolton flags waving below them. The guards at the battlements stare down in befuddlement, clearly trying to put names to the unfamiliar faces.

 _They're in there. Mother and Robb . . . I'll see them again._

Edric tightens his hold around Rose's waist as the horse beneath them trots inside, but she can barely feel it. Her eyes scan the small crowd of Stark, Bolton and Tully men gathered in the courtyard, searching for their faces. Everything about the moment reminds her of returning to Winterfell all those months ago, and the painful events that followed.

The castle fills with a ghostly silence as it stops to stare at them. Then, there's the sound of running footsteps and shallow breathing. Across the courtyard, emerging from the halls . . .

"Mother?"

She finds herself slipping from the horse. Edric follows her down, whipping out his knife and slicing at her bounds. She feels the weight of them leave her wrists, her stare fixated on Catelyn. Her eyes are red like she's been weeping for days, but her face flushes with a surge of different emotions. Joy, confusion, relief, sadness . . . it racks her body with dry sobs, and she opens up her arms, nearly falling to her knees. Rose's legs move on their own accord. She sprints towards her, weak from travelling, and collapses into her awaiting arms. _Home_.

"Oh, my love," she sobs, hysterically into her daughter's shoulder. She smells like wild berries, and crushed flowers, and Winterfell, still. Her hair is soft against Rose's cheek, which is now stained with tears. They hold each other tightly like they will find a way to mesh together, permanently.

"I missed you," Rose gasps.

Catelyn draws apart, cradling her face in her shaking hands. "I missed you, too."

There's more commotion from behind them. Rose looks over her mother's shoulder and feels the breath leave her body.

Robb stands among a group of Tully men, dressed in a leather tunic, his mouth agape. A large smile breaks out on Rose's face. He stares at her, confusedly, like he's trying to work out if she's real. His feet move beneath him at a slow pace towards them. He stops directly in front of her.

Rose's smile fades. She bites down on her lower lip, suddenly anxious. She opens her mouth to explain, but doesn't get the chance. Robb closes the distance between them, wrapping his arms around her, hugging her so ferociously, he sweeps her off her feet. The feeling of being in his embrace . . . it reminds her of father. The thought sends a wave of fresh tears gushing down her cheeks.

Robb holds onto her for a while, sighing happily into her hair. When he sets her down, he holds her at arms-length, scanning her for signs of hurt, and immediately tenses. The right side of her face is still badly bruised from her fall, her bottom lip split. "How did you get here?" he asks, quietly.

Rose wipes at her damp cheeks. "It's a bit of a long story."

Pointedly, she glances over her shoulder. The Bolton soldiers are dragging Theon towards them, his face still caked in dirt, his gaze averted to the floor. Robb takes one look at him, and his jaw sets. Rose gulps.

Any thought she had that Theon could leave unscathed disappears.

* * *

Riverrun's meeting room has fallen into a painful hush. Catelyn and Rose hang back, anxious and fidgeting. Two soldiers stand on either side of Theon, who refuses to stare at anything but the floor, his face paling with each passing second. Robb stands in front of him, still as a statue. "Why?"

Theon heaves a sigh. "Does it matter why?"

Robb stares at him, then slowly shakes his head. "No, I guess not."

"Robb, let him explain," Rose pleads, her voice a fraction above a whisper.

"Why should I let him waste another second of my time—?"

"Because there's so much you don't know."

Furious tears brim in Robb's eyes. He takes a sudden stride towards Theon, making him flinch. "I trusted you," he snarls. "I sent you to Pyke because I trusted you to help me win this war.'

"I wanted to help, I did," Theon croaks.

"All you had to do was be my brother. Instead, you betray me. You storm my home, _kill_ my brothers—"

"Robb, it's not—"

"And why in Seven Hells are you defending him?" Robb bellows, rounding on Rose so suddenly, she stumbles backward into her mother's arms. At the frightened look on her face, he takes a steady breath to calm himself.

Rose straightens up and lifts her chin. "Bran and Rickon are alive," she says, flatly, not stopping when he gapes in confusion. "After the Boltons torched Winterfell, I told them to head for the Riverlands, for you. But, since they aren't here, I imagine they went North, to Castle Black." Her cheeks begin to warm. "That's where we were heading."

Robb glances back and forth between her and Theon, his brow furrowed. "He captured you."

"No, I volunteered."

"After he betrayed our family?" he hisses. When she averts her gaze, he steps towards her, his voice going dangerously low. "Has he done something to you?"

"No!" she cries. "It's not . . ." she trails off, embarrassed.

Robb waits for her to explain, but the words don't seem to come. With a sigh, he turns back to the soldiers, his face set in resolution. "Take him to the dungeons," he orders, quietly. "I need to speak with my sister. Alone," he adds, looking pointedly at Catelyn.

The soldiers grab Theon's arms and drag him out of the room. Catelyn leans over and gives Rose's hand a gentle squeeze, then follows them out, but not before giving Robb a stern look. When the door closes behind them, Rose starts to chew on her bottom lip, anxiously.

Robb slumps down in a chair, eyeing her carefully. "I promised the Northerners Theon would die for this."

"I know." Rose gives a weak smile, leaning back against the table. "When he ambushed Winterfell, I wanted to kill him, too. A part of me still does," she confesses, humming a laugh.

Robb shakes his head. "Everything that this family has done for him."

Rose takes a deep breath, then moves to sit down in the chair next to him. "For such a long time, I wanted to believe he _was_ our family." She looks him, steadily in the eye. "Robb, he was our hostage. Father was his captor. He was an honourable man, but that doesn't mean he didn't make mistakes, like the rest of us. Imagine living in the knowledge that you could wake up any day and be taken to the gallows for things out of your control." Robb winces, but she continues, persistently, "Theon's too proud to admit it, but he was _terrified_ of father. He loved him and respected him, but whether he lived or died wasn't his choice to make. His fate was placed in the hands of two men who didn't seem to care one whit about him."

"That's not true," he whispers. "Father cared for him like a son."

Rose tilts her head, giving him a look. "After taking him from his home and killing his brothers," she points out. She leans back in her chair, thinking. "Balon Greyjoy was never going to be your ally." Her voice fills with venom. "He's a bitter little man who turned his back on his own son for dressing like a Stark. _But_ , he is Theon's true father. If Theon had refused to reeve the North, he'd be betraying his own kin. They would have killed him."

"I would rather die than denounce the people I love," Robb declares, fiercely.

"Say what you will, but . . . neither of us can ever truly understand what he went through." She waits, but his expression doesn't change. He's still dubious, levelling her words in his head. "All right," she sighs. "You considered him a brother, just as I am your sister. Had I betrayed my family, would you kill me?"

Robb's hand instinctively brushes over hers. "It's not the same, Rose."

Desperation filling her, she says, "I know, deep down, you don't want to do this."

Robb hesitates, staring at their hands, now entwined on the table. He looks up, searching her eyes with bewilderment. "You're in love with him."

The words hit her straight in the chest. She swallows back the lump in her throat, blinking away the tears that brim over. "I — that's not important."

Rose half-expects him to leap out of his chair and rage, but instead, he lightly squeezes her hand. "I don't want to hurt you," he insists.

"You will if you execute him," she whispers, brokenly. "That's what the Lannisters want, they _want_ us to turn on each other. Don't waste his life. Let him join the Night's Watch. Show him the mercy that you'd show me."

The seconds tick by in silence. They stare, trying to read each other's thoughts. Rose can see him make the grim decision in his mind.

By all the gods, she saw it.


	24. And Now His Watch Is Ended

**And Now His Watch Is Ended**

"A dragon is not a slave."

* * *

Rose winces when Talisa presses her fingers against her bruised side. "Breathe in for me," she instructs. Rose does, swallowing in the cold air, then exhales. "That's good," Talisa murmurs. She removes her fingers. "How do you feel?"

Rose smiles, wryly. "Like I fell off a horse."

"It doesn't look like anything's broken." She moves to stand in front of her, her cheeks reddening a little. "Forgive me, My Lady, but you'll need to take your dress down, for this bit."

Rose feels her stomach lurching, but with trembling hands, pushes her nightdress down her shoulder blades, feeling coldness where the fabric leaves her skin. Sucking in a brave breath, she pushes it even further. Talisa quickly rounds the table to look at her from behind, sparing her blushes. Even so, Rose draws the front material up and over her chest.

"You're my sister," she whispers. "You can call me Rose. Besides, I should be calling you Your Grace," she adds, with a small chuckle.

Talisa scoffs. "I don't think I'll ever get used to that."

Rose feels her gentle fingers pressing against her back, feeling against her swollen bruises. "It suits Robb," she says, trying to distract herself from the pain. "He's stubborn as anything. But, he's gentle and honourable, too." She nibbles on her bottom lip. "You will be good to him, won't you?"

Talisa smiles, warmly. "Just as he is good to me."

Their eyes meet for a split second, an unspoken reassurance unfolding between them. Then, the door creaks open. Robb strides through, but the second he sees his sister's state of undress, he turns his head. "Forgive me."

"It's all right." Rose yanks her nightdress back up. "We were just finishing."

"Actually, My La — Rose, there's something else." Talisa moves to stand in front of her, her entire demeanour shifting to bashfulness. "Other injuries, perhaps. _Internal_ injuries."

Rose frowns. "I don't understand."

Talisa flashes Robb a quick, uneasy glance, then sucks in a deep breath. Her voice softens. "In Winterfell, while you were captive . . . did any of his men—? Were you hurt in _other_ ways?"

Rose feels a surge of fear coursing through her body. She blinks, processing the words, her body burning. "I don't . . ." she frantically shakes her head, looking back and forth, between the pair of them. "I can't talk about—"

"If there's any lasting soreness, that could be a sign of infection. Or a month without flowering could indicate pregnancy—"

"I'm not—!" Rose leaps off the table, her legs bucking beneath her. She can barely hear Talisa over the ringing in her ears. Gulping it back, she tries again, "No, I'm sure it's all fine, thank you."

Talisa and Robb exchange alarmed looks. After a strained silence, he steps forward, cautiously. "Rose—"

"I said I'm fine," she splutters.

Robb raises his hands, freezing in his steps. She wonders why, then realises she's fallen backward against the table, away from him. Her heart is racing an unsteady beat in her chest. _Thump, thump, thump_. Quickly, she regains control of her breathing and straightens up. "I need to rest," she whispers.

Before either of them can stop her, she's fled from the room.

* * *

Rose and Catelyn sit in the dining room, a spread of desserts in front of them. Rose beams, licking the honey cake crumbs from her fingers. "It's delicious," she murmurs.

Catelyn grins. "When I was a little girl, these were my favourites. I was always after sweeter things than proper food."

Rose nods. "Like Sansa." Her smile fades at the mention of her name.

Catelyn shifts in her seat, suddenly anxious. "How is she?"

With a sigh, Rose pushes her plate aside. "She's coping the best she can," she insists, a hint of pride in her voice. "She's stronger than she looks."

Catelyn shakes her head. "I should have spent more time teaching you girls how to protect yourselves," she whispers. "Had I known this would be our future—"

"You couldn't have known. None of us wanted this. To be apart like this, I — it kills me every day," Rose confesses. Her heart aches, with the thought of Sansa in King's Landing, with Bran and Rickon, wherever they may be. And Jon, whom she hasn't heard from in years.

Catelyn clasps her hand over the table. "Me too, sweetheart." She averts her gaze to the ground. "I remember the pain, the first time your father rode for Dorne, alongside King Robert. That year we spent apart felt like torture. Even more so when he returned with another woman's child." She closes her eyes for a moment, and when she opens them, they've glistened over in tears. "I was left looking like a fool, standing so faithfully beside an unfaithful man. A man whose reputation spoke of nothing but honour."

"Because you loved him," Rose says, quietly. "In spite of everything he did. In spite of how you wish you felt . . . you loved him."

"I did."

"Even though he hurt you so terribly."

The words open up a fresh hole in her chest. She had spent so much time pushing it aside; everything that Theon had done to her in Winterfell. How he'd imprisoned them. Killed Ser Rodrick. Then, beaten her. Strung up those farmer's boys. But it all feels like nothing compared to . . .

"Robb and I had a word about this afternoon," Catelyn says. Rose looks up through eyes clouded with tears to find her mother staring at her, gently. "Rose, if there's — if there's anything you'd like to talk about . . . anything at all." She tenses, bracing herself. "Sometimes I wonder how different the world would be if women discuss such things."

"Maybe some things are too painful to talk about." Rose's voice comes out thick and strangled, with the force of keeping her tears down. "Maybe that's how we survive. We keep things in, to protect ourselves. To carry on." She lets out a humourless chuckle. "I've never been good at that."

"Oh, my love, we both know that never works. Silence isn't brave. It's fragile and unreliable. Embracing our pain, letting ourselves drown in it," Catelyn leans over and cradles Rose's face in her hand, grazing her cheek with her thumb, " _that_ takes strength. It's all right to let it out."

Rose feels her face crumpling, the weight against her chest getting heavier and heavier. Finally, she buries her face in her hands and lets out a loud sob, which racks her entire body. She cries for those agonising months spent in Winterfell. For the treatment of her and her sister, for her father's death, for all the unresolved feeling between herself and Theon . . . for the hope that died in her the day she was raped.

"It's alright," she can hear her mother saying. Her hand rubs gentle circles on her back. Rose crouches onto her knees, and Catelyn pulls her against her chest, the tears drenching the fabric of her dress. "It's alright."

* * *

Robb enters the dungeons, waiting until he can hear the doors clanging shut behind him. Theon staggers to his feet, his entire form shaking in anticipation. Robb strides towards him, eyes never leaving his, a venomous look on his face. A hollow silence rings out.

Then, Robb smashes his fist into the side of his face, slamming Theon back to the ground. The sound of flesh hitting flesh echoes against the walls. "I considered throwing you in with the hounds," Robb muses, shaking out his fist. "Watch as they tore you, limb for limb, like some helpless deer. Every night when I closed my eyes, I pictured the look on your face when you realised your end. Now, I see I have better use for you alive."

He crouches down to Theon's level, who peers back up at him with nothing but sheer terror. "You cost this family more than you can possibly imagine," Robb spits, hurt seeping into his tone. "But your debt will be paid."

"Anything," Theon rasps. "I'll do anything."

"Yes. You will. You'll do exactly as I command. Should you outlive your usefulness, I will head to Castle Black myself and slaughter you in your sleep. Should I find out you've laid so much as a finger on my sister, I will cut them off, one by one. Should my brothers die, wherever they may be, their pain will be returned tenfold. Do you understand me?"

Theon nods, jerkily. Robb straightens up, dusting himself off. "Count your blessings Rose was here to convince me of your worth." He turns to head for the door.

"She means everything to me."

Robb falters in his steps. A rage, inhuman and frightening, fills him to the brim. The same he felt when he discovered his father was killed. He spins back around and delivers a hard kick to Theon's ribs, causing him to howl out in pain. "You'll never go near her again," he hisses.

Theon doesn't say a word, curling up into a ball on the floor. A part of Robb feels guilty, but those feelings die when he remembers how Rose had been returned to him — trembling, covered in bruises, flinching at the slightest of sounds. His resolve setting, he storms out of the cellar, slamming the bars shut behind him.

* * *

The morning arrives bleak and drizzling with rain. Near the gates, three horses are being prepared for riding, along with two Tully soldiers. Rose stands, a cloak wrapped around her, at her mother's side, watching as Theon fastens his saddle to his horse. After some time, he turns to face them, a grim expression crosses his face.

Robb tenses beside Rose, but she ignores him. With slow strides, she approaches Theon, meeting him in the middle of the courtyard. They stare at each other for a long time. She memorises the blue in his eyes, his high cheekbones, the redness in his tousled hair. There are times when she forgets just how handsome he is. He looks back at her with the same aching, the same adoring.

Taking a breath, she hands him a letter. "Give this to Jon when you arrive," she whispers. He nods, pocketing it. "I can't imagine he'll be so forgiving, but he'll listen to my words. All your crimes will be forgiven, once you've taken the black."

"I don't deserve to be forgiven," Theon croaks. She's surprised to see tears beginning to drip down his cheeks. "I don't deserve your forgiveness after I treated you so terribly—"

"Tough. Because I forgive you." And she means it. Taking his face in her hands, she levels their gazes, fixing him with a sincere look. " _I forgive you_ , Theon."

He sniffles, covering her hand with his, relishing the feeling of her soft skin. "Promise me . . . don't wait for me," he pleads.

Rose smiles, sadly. "I promise. I still have no intention of marrying you."

Theon chuckles. "Good." He steps nearer to her, so their foreheads are touching. A familiar warmth spreads through both of them at their closeness. The world around them disappears. "Rose, I . . ."

"I know," she whispers. "Me too."

Without a second thought to their audience, she closes the distance between them, their lips colliding, softly. She's stunned at how unfamiliar this sensation is — to be with him intimately was one thing, but to share such tenderness, with a thousand unspoken things hanging between them, is new and strange. But, it feels wonderful.

Then their lips are parted, and the truth of this moment sets in. A single tear sliding down her cheek, Rose takes a step away from him. "Farewell, Greyjoy," she says.

"And you, My Lady."

His hand slips out of hers. She feels an emptiness swelling inside of her as Theon mounts his horse, the soldiers at his side, and together, they gallop through the gates of Riverrun.

* * *

Rose lays in bed, facing the window. The sheets are drawn up to her chin, but she can still feel the cool breeze swishing against the curtains. For the first time in years, she feels calm. A still, quiet calm that puts a smile on her lips. The door creaks open behind her. She rolls over to see Robb entering the room, his armour removed, looking exhausted. "Did I wake you?"

Rose shakes her head. "No."

Robb closes the door behind him and sits himself down on the side of the bed, while she props herself up into a sitting position. The pair stare at one another, both waiting for the other to speak. "I don't know what to say," he confesses, but his eyes are anguished.

Rose bites down on her lip. "Before they executed father, Joffrey promised to be merciful. Then, when they cut his head off, he told us _that_ was mercy." The memories make her flinch, the scent of death, the sight of Ned's head leaving his shoulders still haunting her. "Every day in the South, we were told how lucky we were, Sansa and I, that we were still alive. Like that was something to be grateful for." She smiles, suddenly. "You were merciful today. _Truly_ merciful. It's one of the reasons you're a great king."

He chuckles, softly. "I don't back down on my word often." After what seems like forever, he meets her gaze, a hint of sternness in his eye. "I don't want to know what went on between you and Theon. I don't _need_ to know." When she hangs her head, embarrassed, Robb places a gentle hand on her shoulder. "But, I understand what it's like to love someone the whole world tells you not to. I know how much courage that takes." He sucks in a trembling breath. "I made a mistake, not coming to Winterfell myself."

"No, you didn't," Rose insists. She averts her gaze from his, feeling nauseous. "You won't make me talk about what happened."

"Never," Robb promises. He removes his hand from her arm, shifting uncomfortably on the mattress. "Just one thing." His voice strains, like he's trying his best not to get angry. "The man who did that to you . . ."

"He's dead," she says, plainly, flatly. "I killed him."

Robb blinks, stunned. He stares at her, measuring his next words in his head. Then, he clasps her hand. "Jon and I may wield blades and head off to battle, but you, you're the bravest of us all," he declares. "I am proud to call you my sister. Now, and always."

Silent tears flood down Rose's cheeks. Happy tears. Robb gives her a small smile. He gives her forehead a light kiss, then pulls her to his chest. Rose nestles against him, releases a steady breath as his hand runs over her hair, the storm inside of her quelling.

 _Things will be better now. I know it._


	25. Kissed by Fire

**Kissed by Fire**

"By what right does the wolf judge the lion?"

* * *

"I only just got you back. Why the hell d'you want to leave again?"

"I made a promise to Lord Tyrion—"

"A Lannister."

"—and to our sister," Rose interrupts, "that I would return. She suffered enough when we were together. I'm not leaving her there to rot."

Robb sits up in his chair, tossing his quill down onto the table. "Men have been killed," he snaps. "Good men, men that I admire, all to ensure the three of you return, safely to me."

"They gave their lives for what they believe to be right. And I will risk mine to do the very same."

"The answer is no," Robb declares, firmly. "You're staying put."

Rose's eyes narrow. "Is that an order from my brother or my king?"

"Both."

Rose stares at him, at a loss for words. _Who the hell does he think he is?_ Before she has the chance to ask, Catelyn steps towards her, taking her hands. "We'll find another way to ensure Sansa's safety," she insists, gently. "And we'll find Arya along the way, I'm sure of it."

"In the meantime?" Rose asks. Rage simmering in the pity of her belly, she snatches her hands away, ignoring the hurt that flashes across her mother's face. "You don't know what it was like, either of you! You can say you're sorry and promise to protect us, but we were treated like Joffrey's playthings, punished for _your_ victories—!" she adds, pointing accusingly at Robb.

"All the more reason for you to stay," he sighs. "No one's going to hurt you here."

Rose crosses her arms over her chest. "I am going back to King's Landing."

Robb's face turns murderous. "No, you're not," he snarls, rising from his chair.

"Don't make me break my word."

"I broke mine for _you_!" he cries, rounding the table to stand in front of her. She can see the redness in his face, the fury in his eyes. "I released Theon for _you_!"

"You released Theon because I convinced you of his worth!"

Catelyn tries to get between them. "Both of you, calm down now," she pleads.

"You trust that Tyrion will keep you safe," Robb hisses, venomously. "Just like you trusted that Theon would never betray this family, never let any of his men lay a finger on you, and look what happened. It's safe to say you're not the best judge of character, little sister, letting that kind of man into your bed—"

Her hand flies up and across his face, the sound like a crack echoing through the meeting room.

"Rose!" Catelyn gasps, shocked.

Rose gapes, horrified at herself. She can feel her palm stinging from the impact, but it's nothing compared to the blossoming redness in Robb's cheek. He takes a deep, calming breath, straightening up to face her again. He looks at her with such animosity, he's momentarily unrecognisable.

He opens his mouth, but the sound of the door swinging open cuts him off. Rose turns and finds a squire standing, flustered at the entrance. "Forgive me, Your Grace," he gasps. "It's . . ." he trails off, a mild look of horror crossing his face.

* * *

The orbs of the Lannisters boys stare up at the ceiling, unseeing. Their tunics are bloodied, their skin lifeless. Rose has seen dead bodies before — the day they executed her father — but these bloated, white corpses still make her feel sick.

"Bring them in," Robb orders.

Brynden nods and opens the door. At her side, Talisa straightens up into a standing position, looking close to tears. Rose gives her what she hopes is a reassuring smile, but she's met with nothing but a single blink.

Soldiers troop in, followed by the Karstark men, Rickard at the front. He has the good sense to look disgusted by the Lannister bodies, sprawled out on the cloak-covered floor. "Is that all of them?" Robb asks. Brynden gives him another nod, and Robb looks at each man in turn, livid. "It took five of you to murder two unarmed squires?"

"Not murder, Your Grace," Rickard hisses. "Vengeance."

"Vengeance? Those boys didn't kill your sons. I saw Harrion die on the battlefield and Torrhen—"

"Was strangled by the Kingslayer. They were his kin."

"They were _boys_!" Robb bellows, making Rose jump. His voice bounces off the walls, the entire room shifting into unease as his face grows more murderous by the second. "Look at them," he orders, tersely.

"Tell your mother to look at them," Rickard snarls. "She killed them as much as I."

"My mother had nothing to do with this. This was your treason."

"It's treason to free your enemies," he snaps. "In war, you kill your enemies. Did your father not teach you that, boy?"

Brynden steps forward, draws his fist back and slams it into Rickard's mouth. The force of the blow sends him crashing to the ground, blood spewing from his lips, onto the stone floor. "Leave him," Robb barks. Shaking out his fist, Brynden steps back, eyes blazing.

"Aye," Rickard grunts, still on his knees. "Leave me to the King. He wants to give me a scolding before he sets me free." A hideous smile twists his face as he rises to his feet. "That's how he deals with treason, our King in the North. Or, should I call him the King Who Lost the North?"

The room falls silent.

"Escort Lord Karstark to the dungeon," Robb murmurs, darkly. "Hang the rest."

The soldiers begin to push the Karstark men towards the door. "Mercy, sire!" one of them shouts, tearfully. "I didn't kill anyone! I only watched for the guards!"

"This one was only the watcher," Robb says, stiffly. "Hang him last so he can watch the others die."

Turning on his heel, he heads back towards his desk, the futile begs of the soldiers fall on deafened ears. The doors clang shut. Robb slumps down in his chair, looking conflicted.

"Word of this can't leave Riverrun," Edmure grumbles. "They were Tywin Lannister's nephews. The Lannisters pay their debts. They never stop talking about it."

Robb looks up. "Would you make me a liar as well as a murderer?"

"It wouldn't be lying," Edmure insists. "We will bury them and remain silent until the war is done."

"Northerners mourn their dead," Rose murmurs, with a frown. "The Lannisters are entitled to the same prerogative."

Edmure tilts his head to look at her, bemused. "Has your time with them made you soft, Little Rose?"

She grits her teeth. "Quite the opposite, Uncle Edmure. But, even the most callous of monsters earn the right to grieve."

"I'm not fighting for justice if I don't serve justice to murderers in my ranks," Robb sighs, frustrated. "No matter how high-born." Looking as though he hates himself for saying it, he mutters, "He has to die."

Catelyn rises from her seat and crosses the room. "The Karstarks are Northmen," she points out. "They won't forgive the killing of their Lord."

Talisa nods. "Your mother's right. If you do this, the Karstarks will abandon you."

"You tended to their wounds," Robb says, incredulous. "You brought them supper. Now, they're dead."

Talisa steps closer to the table. "And more boys will keep dying until this war is over. You need Karstark men to end it."

"Spare his life," Catelyn pleads. "Keep him as a hostage."

"A hostage," Edmure echoes in agreement. "Tell the Karstarks that as long as they remain loyal, he will not be harmed."

Robb averts his gaze to the floor. He thinks for what feels like an age. Then, he looks across the room to his mother, somewhat apologetically.

* * *

The rain falls harder and heavier in Riverrun, batting against the Tully banners. Rickard is hauled up, onto the podium, where he stands before the block. Robb steps out from under the tent, leaving Rose's side. The resolute look on his face hasn't left since the meeting. It scares her, how enraged he is. When they were children, he was always so kind, so gentle. She's seen glimpses of that same boy since arriving in Riverrun, but her brother is no longer a boy. He's a man. A _king_.

The rain instantly soaks him, his curls sticking to the sides of his face as he approaches a lofty Rickard. "The blood of the First Men flows through my veins as much as yours, boy," he spits, trying to be heard over the pattering rain. "I fought the Mad King for your father. I fought Joffrey for you. We are kin — Stark and Karstark."

"That didn't stop you from betraying me. And it won't save you now."

"I don't want it to save me. I want it to haunt you to the end of your days."

Robb's jaw sets. "Kneel, My Lord."

He does so, directly in front of the block. Rose feels her heart hammering in her chest, in timing with the beat of the rainfall. When nausea swells inside her, she slips her hand into her mother's, giving it a fearful squeeze. Catelyn responds by wrapping her arm around her waist.

Robb draws his sword. "Rickard Karstark, Lord of Karhold, here in sight of gods and men, I sentence you to die. Would you speak a final word?"

"Kill me and be cursed," he bellows, his voice echoing in the courtyard. "You are no king of mine."

Without another word, Robb lifts his sword above his head and brings it down in one, clean swipe over Rickard's neck. The blood seeps over the block, then disappears in the rain. Robb turns, livid, tosses his sword onto the grass, and stalks off, clenching his fists.

* * *

Rose sucks in a breath and raps on the door. When there's no response, she hesitantly steps in, searching the room. She finds him, sitting at the fireplace, sorting through the papers on his desk. He looks up when he hears her enter. "I know you're busy."

"Actually, I was going to come and find you." Robb sets down his work and waves her over, gesturing for her to sit. Her stomach in knots, she does so, fidgeting with her hands in her lap. Robb sighs, then begins, "Today, I learned something. The more you try to control people, the more they'll pull away from you. You'll grow to hate each other and do things you regret. I don't want that to be our way."

Rose bites on her lip. "I shouldn't have hit you," she mumbles. "I'm sorry."

Robb chuckles. "If there's one person who had to slap some sense into me, I'm glad it was you." Rose finds herself grinning. "I was out of line. I'm sorry, too, if what I said hurt you." They share a long, pensive look, eyes fixated on each other. "That day you walked through those gates, got off your horse and leaped into my arms . . . for the first time in a long time, I felt at peace with myself," he confesses. "Truly, I thought that everything was going to be alright."

"I know," Rose sniffs. "I felt the same, but this war isn't over, yet. There are still so many sacrifices to be made."

"I don't want _you_ to have to make them." Robb leans across the table and clasps her hand, his faced pained.

She smiles, giving it a gentle squeeze. "The only thing that's kept me going since we left Winterfell is the thought of us all being together again. I wake up every day and I hate myself for leaving Sansa in that dreadful place." She feels tears stinging her eyes, but she takes a deep breath to steady herself. "You're a man of your word. I'm a woman of mine. Just, please . . . let me go."

Robb hangs his head, thinking. When he releases her hand and slumps back in her seat, for a split second, she thinks he hates her. Then, he meets her gaze, the decision in his eyes. He gets up and rounds the table, then gently takes her arms and tugs her to her feet. "Father always said wolves belong in packs. But, I suppose the toughest of them can run free once in a while."

Rose bites down on her lip to stop herself from crying. Robb beams at her, and pulls her into his arms, hugging her, close to his chest. He drops a kiss on top of her head. They stay entwined that way, listening to the crackle of the fireplace, then draw apart.

Rose looks up at him, grinning. "King in the North," she whispers. "He'd be proud of you."

A surge of emotions crosses his face. He says nothing, but runs a hand over her hair, staring as though he can't bear the thought of looking away.

* * *

The next morning, the horses are prepared for riding, along with several Stark men, and a handful of Tully soldiers. Rose has braided her hair, donned her riding clothes, and shoved everything she needs into her bag. Her mother and brother are waiting next to the gates when she steps out. And a hundred or so of their soldiers, each staring at her in worry. She ignores them, pushing through, walking straight up to Robb.

He gives her a dim smile. "I have a gift for you." He holds out a small dagger, with a curved blade and the Stark sigil engraved in the hilt.

Rose takes it, admiring the steel. "Sharp," she mumbles. Robb lets out a chuckle, which she returns with a bashful grin. "Thank you."

Catelyn steps forward. Rose can tell she's been crying — her eyes are red and swollen, her skin a shade paler than usual. "It's not too late to change your mind, love," she insists. "We won't think little of you."

"I know, but I'll think little of myself."

Robb lets out a quiet breath. "You'll take the River Road," he says, in a steady voice. "My men can take you as far as Harrenhal, and then—" he looks to Catelyn, instantly wary.

"A friend of mine will meet you there," she finishes. "He'll take you to King's Landing."

Rose frowns. "Which friend?"

Robb and Catelyn exchange anxious glances, but neither of them answers. "You should go," he says, eventually. "Find a place to rest at sunset." Rose nods, not pushing the matter. He smiles at her, though his eyes are glistening with tears, and tweaks her chin before stepping aside.

Rose turns to her mother, who sucks in a trembling breath. Instantly, she fills with dread. "What is it?" Catelyn asks, reading the change in her face. Rose shakes her head and averts her gaze. Catelyn frowns, cradling her face, softly in her hands. "Sweetheart, what is it?"

Rose bites her lip when she feels the tears brimming over. "I wanted to be brave."

"You are brave," Catelyn insists, fiercely. "I know that you're frightened, and I know that you're upset, but that's alright. These past few years have been steeped in hatred and savagery, born long before you, long before your brothers and sisters."

"What if I never see you again?" Rose whimpers, her voice breaking.

Catelyn purses her lips. She closes her eyes, steeling herself, then opens them with a warm smile. "Then, live," she whispers. "Be what you've always been. A light in this blackened world. Go on adventures, be daring. Fall in love." Her hand runs over Rose's braid. "You're a Stark of Winterfell. I will always be with you, however far you go, so long as my blood runs through your veins."

Rose blinks, ferociously. "I love you."

"I love you, too." Catelyn wraps her arms around her. "My sweet girl."

They hug each other for a long time, listening to the sounds of their breathing, their beating hearts. Rose catches Robb's resolved expression over her shoulder, and that's the motivation she needs to pull away. She looks, once more, into her mother's Tully blue eyes, the eyes they share.

Then, she crosses the courtyard to her horse, mounting it, her legs trembling beneath her. _I'm a Stark of Winterfell. A wolf. I will not be frightened._ With a watery smile, she gives her family a small wave. Their hands finding one another, Robb and Catelyn watch as her horse pivots, then gallops out of Riverrun, it's hooves thundering across the wooden bridge.


	26. The Climb

**A/N:** contains sexual content.

* * *

 **The Climb**

"Chaos isn't a pit. Chaos is a ladder. Many who try to climb it fail and never get to try again. The fall breaks them. And some, are given a chance to climb. They refuse, they cling to the realm or the gods or love. Illusions. Only the ladder is real. The climb is all there is."

* * *

The stories Septa Mordane told her when she was little had drawn up many illusions in her head. Harrenhal, the largest castle in the Seven Kingdoms, it's holdings some of the richest in Westeros, the vast tracts of fertile land.

Not anymore.

Rose slides from her horse, grateful to feel the ground beneath her feet again. The castle is a dark, ruinous place. The towers, so high it makes her feel giddy, are broken at their bricks, with bats hiding behind the windows. The walls are covered in decay, practically falling apart at the seams. Even the sky above seems murkier here.

In the centre of the courtyard, surrounded by gold cloaks, is a very familiar face. It makes her want to laugh, how out of place he looks in the midst of all this ruin. "My Lady." With a thin smile, he bows his head.

Her eyes narrow. "Lord Baelish."

"Petyr," he corrects. Her approaches her, looking her up and down, and gently removes her hood. His warm hands cradle her cold cheeks. "I've come to escort you back to King's Landing."

Rose frowns. "My mother said she'd recruited a friend—"

"Aye." He tenses a little. "Your blessed mother, she's convinced I had a hand in your father's downfall." Remorse colours his tone, but it sounds forced. "I aim to prove my loyalty."

Rose's muscles clench together. "Why would she think that?"

Littlefinger searches her face, taking a long pause. Finally, he says, "Sometimes, after we've lost someone, it's easier to blame others for their demise. Or you blame yourself for letting them down."

Rose glares. "My mother didn't let him down," she hisses.

"Of course not, my love." Littlefinger doesn't seem fazed by her abrupt anger. Instead, he smooths a hand, tenderly over her golden braid. "We should find a place to rest. You've had a long journey."

"No," she says, stubbornly. "We need to keep moving."

Littlefinger purses his lips. "Rose—"

"I'm not asking." She lifts her chin. "I'll leave with or without you."

She half-expects him to be irritated. Instead, his smile widens, and he nods his head.

* * *

"Did you seek the King's permission to leave King's Landing?"

"No." Rose fidgets with her hands in front of her.

"Who did give you permission to leave?" Cersei demands.

"Lord Tyrion and Lord Varys. The Ironborn were invading Winterfell. They asked me to bring my little brothers South for their protection."

Tywin scrutinises her. "And you thought it wise to heed those orders?"

Under his stare, Rose feels her cheeks warming, her heart thumping. "I thought it wise to obey the Hand of the King when he asked something of me," she says, timidly. _How can one man be so terrifying?_

"Even if what you're saying is true, where are your brothers?" Cersei asks. "Why are they not at your side?"

Rose picks at the nails on her fingers. The entire room stares at her, Lord Tywin and Cersei sitting behind the table, guards at every corner of the room, Littlefinger hovering somewhere over her shoulder. She has never felt so out of place, with her riding clothes dirt-stained, her hair a tatted mess.

Sucking in a quiet breath, she explains, "By the time I got to Winterfell, it was too late. The Ironborn had taken it, sacked the castle. They captured me and held me as a hostage."

Cersei's eyes narrow. "But you escaped."

Rose nods. "When the Northern armies arrived, Theon panicked. He abandoned his men and took me with him. He wanted to go back to the Iron Islands, but—" she trails off, her mind frantically searching for a lie.

Tywin lifts an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"Bandits ambushed them on the road," Littlefinger finishes, smoothly. "They knew who she was from her golden hair, the lovely Rose of Winterfell. I imagine they were taking her back to the South, assuming they'd fetch a handsome price for her. My men and I intercepted them at Harrenhal." Rose nods, trying to look like this is all familiar to her.

Tywin peers at Littlefinger for a long moment, then his eyes draw back to her. "Is this true, Lady Rose?" he asks. She can hear it in his voice. If he finds out she's lying, he'll have her head on a spike.

She squares her shoulders and pushes the thought aside. "Yes."

"What of Theon Greyjoy?" Cersei adds. "Where is he?"

 _If they know he's alive, they'll find him. They'll kill him. They will._

Rose bites down on her lip. "I don't know," she whispers, truthfully. Angrily, she blinks away the tears that spring to her eyes. "When can I see my sister?"

Tywin and Cersei exchange a bemused look. He turns back to Littlefinger. "Thank you, Lord Baelish, for returning her safely," he says. "You'll be rewarded for this."

Littlefinger bows his head. "It's my pleasure."

"Girl." Tywin waves her forward. Her legs move automatically closer, though the blood roars in her ears. He waits until she's standing, directly in front of him, before speaking. "King Joffrey was not pleased when he discovered you'd disappeared," he warns. "However, if my son truly granted your leave, there is nothing he can do about it. I suggest you keep your head down from now on. Stay well out of trouble, are we understood?"

Rose blushes, furiously. "Yes, My Lord."

Tywin nods. "Take her back to her chambers," he orders. "She's to be guarded day and night."

Littlefinger's hand finds the small of her back. He leads her, the guards surrounding them, out of the room, relief surging through her like a flood.

* * *

Rose tiptoes along the floorboards, holding her breath. Sansa's sleeping form lies atop of the covers, her chest rising and falling with each deep breath. Quietly, so as not to scare her, she climbs onto the other side of the bed, resting sideways against the pillows.

At the gentle movement, Sansa's eyes flutter open. She stares, blinks, then a loud gasp escapes her. Her arms fling around Rose and squeeze her tightly, practically suffocating her. "Hello," Rose chuckles, hugging her back with equal fierceness.

"I missed you so much," Sansa sniffles, her voice muffled.

"I missed you too."

Sansa pulls apart, tears brimming in her eyes. "You look awful," she decides.

Rose frowns and shifts so she's lying on her back. "Nonsense. I never look awful."

Sansa giggles. She props herself up on one elbow to look at her, the amusement dropping from her face. "What happened to you?" she asks. "You were gone for so long."

"I'm sorry, I — it's a long story." She chews on her bottom lip, guilt burning in her chest. "I'm sorry for leaving you here. It was a rotten thing to do."

Sansa shakes her head, smiling again. "You were so brave. The bravest sister there ever was." Rose hums a laugh as she pokes the side of her ribs. Sansa sighs, happily, and lies back down against the pillows. "You will tell me what happened, won't you?"

Rose nods. "Soon. I promise. Just let me close my eyes for a while."

Sansa watches as they drift shut, her head lulling against the pillows, her breathing evening out almost instantly. She shuffles closer and rests her head on Rose's shoulder, the smile never leaving her face.

* * *

Rose leans back in her chair, massaging her throbbing temple with her fingertips. Littlefinger hands her a cup of wine. "Thank you," she mumbles, taking it. A large swig of it burns down her throat, but it feels good. It feels needed.

Littlefinger begins to pour his own cup. "The last time we spoke properly, I had an offer for you."

Rose grins. "You asked me to marry you."

"I told you marriage would help to ensure your safety."

"And, I agree," she confesses. "And I might have said yes." At this, Littlefinger's head snaps around, his brow raised in surprised. Rose clears her throat, awkwardly. "If it's true that Lord Tyrion is to marry my sister, I've no intention of leaving her. Not again. I'd rather be a prisoner than abandon her."

Littlefinger sits down in the chair opposite hers. "Tyrion is a kind man at his core. I can't imagine he'd ever hurt Sansa."

"Still. He's a Lannister." Rose rubs her finger, softly along the rim of her cup, her brow furrowed in thought. "Why is he doing this? Lord Tywin, I mean."

Littlefinger takes a sip of his wine. "You and Sansa are the key to Winterfell," he explains. "Your brother's army is disintegrating. It's the perfect time to seize the heart of the North. Tyrion will wed your sister to claim it."

Rose shakes her head. "That doesn't many any sense," she protests. " _I'm_ the eldest daughter. Should Robb die, _I'd_ be the rightful heir to Winterfell. Tyrion would have a better claim to it if he wed me."

A small smile turns up the corners of Littlefinger's lips. "How well do you know Tywin Lannister?"

"I don't," she admits. "Know him. Not well."

"He's a cunning, ambitious man who despises weakness of any kind." He has a disgusted edge to his tone. "Tyrion, in his eyes, is weak. Do you really think he would put the North so readily into his hands? A drunken dwarf, a lover of whores, the shame of the family? Luckily for him, Tyrion is not his only son."

Again, he picks up his wine and sips it, watching as Rose lets this sink in. The pieces fit together in her head, and her stomach twists into knots. "He's going to make me marry Jaime."

"Should he ever return, alive," Littlefinger murmurs. "I believe so."

"After Tywin's killed my brother, he'll make Jaime the Lord of Winterfell."

Littlefinger nods, grimly. "The Northerners would not so easily accept a Southern ruler, but with Ned and Catelyn Stark's trueborn heir at his side . . ." he trails off, leaving the thought hanging in the air. His eyes narrow as he searches her face. "You don't look so repulsed at the idea."

Rose chews on her bottom lip. "I'd be a Lannister," she muses, softly. "It's not ideal, but I'd be safe. And I'd be with Sansa."

"Unless the revelation of this betrayal drives a wedge between brothers," Littlefinger points out.

Rose considers this. All this information is beginning to make her head hurt. Could it even be possible? Could Jaime turn his back on his oath to the Kingsguard? Would Tywin truly make him do so? With a heavy sigh, she gulps down the rest of her wine. Leaning forward, she grabs the pitcher and pours herself another large glass, making Littlefinger chuckle, softly to himself.

She can't suppress her smile. "If I married you, Tywin would have you killed."

"Perhaps." He waits until she's gulped down the second glass of wine, the cup not leaving her lips until it's all gone. Then, he picks up both of the goblets. "Unless I took you far away," he says, rising to his feet and crossing back over to the table. "Somewhere they couldn't find you, or your sister." He spares a glance at her over his shoulder. "Regardless, I'm promised to another, now. Your Aunt, Lysa. My ship departs for the Vale today."

Rose blinks, startled. "You're leaving?"

Littlefinger leans back against the table, facing her with a wry smile. "I won't lie to you. It touches me that it makes you upset, the thought of my departure."

Rose pushes herself up from her seat. "It doesn't make me happy."

Getting to her feet now, she can feel her head reeling from the wine. Her cheeks feel oddly flushed as Littlefinger crosses the room towards her, still smiling. "I am sorry that our time together has been so short," he murmurs. "I'd hope to have spent more days at your side." His eyes bearing into hers, he slowly lifts his hand and brushes it over her cheek. "I see so much of your mother in you. Her beauty. Her fire." His voice is so soft, barely a fraction over a whisper. "A wonderful wife, you would have made."

Rose stares into his eyes. At first glance, she'd thought they were grey. But now that she's standing this close to him, she can see how blue they really are. She could count all the hairs above his lip, or across his chin if she wanted to. He looks back at her with equal curiosity.

Suddenly, he takes her face in his hands and presses his lips against hers. She freezes, unsure of what to do. His mouth gently coaxes hers open, deepening the kiss, and it instantly doesn't feel so strange.

Her heart hammering against her ribs, she places her hands, tentatively against his chest. His slide down, finding her waist and presses her against his body. The contact makes her gasp. Littlefinger's movements become more urgent with this. Rose sinks into him, his hands running all over her body, against her sides, over the back of her thighs. She lets out a small whimper, the arousal seeping through. _This is wrong, this is wrong, this is wrong. Why isn't this frightening me?_

Suddenly, his lips are no longer on hers. Instead, they plant kisses down her jawline, tracing all the way to her neck. Littlefinger's hands hold her steady; she feels as though she'll melt to the floor, otherwise. They go further still, kissing the exposed skin against her flushed chest. Then, one of his hands begins to knead her breast as his lips brush down them.

With a loud gasp, she grips onto him. _He should stop. Why don't I want him to stop?_

Further he goes, kissing all the way down her body until he's on his knees in front of her. _Littlefinger is on his knees. In front of me. What is happening?_ His clever fingers run along the fashionable slit of her dress, which begins at her ankle and stops at her thigh, revealing the side of her leg. He pulls it apart, and she feels his breath against her. He kisses the inner part of her thigh, making her whimper.

Then, his mouth is right at her soaking entrance, kissing her there. Rose lets out a loud cry, waves of pleasure exploding through her body, beginning between her legs and making her moan. _Oh, he's good at this_. His hands reach around to grab at the flesh of her backside, holding her still as she squirms above him. She can do nothing but tangle her fingers in his hair and bite her lip to refrain from wailing, flinging her head back.

 _This shouldn't feel right. Not after Winterfell . . . not after Theon . . ._

Rose shudders when his tongue finally stops exploring. His mouth moves back up her body, his hands following. When she opens her eyes, Littlefinger's face is in front of hers again, standing over her with a lustful look on his face. He places one soft kiss on her swollen lips, brushing the hair from her perspiring forehead.

"I will see you again soon, my love," he whispers.

Just like that, he turns on his heel and heads for the door. Rose watches, rooted to the spot, as it shuts behind him. The moment she's alone, she heads over to her bed and collapses, backward against it. _What is wrong with me?_

A part of her is filled with immense guilt. For leading Littlefinger on, for betraying her own feelings for another man. But the biggest part of her is perplexed. She shouldn't have wanted that, not after what happened to her. To be intimate with a man . . . that experience should be ruined forever. So, why did it feel so wonderful to have him kissing her, touching her in that way?

And why did it have to be Littlefinger? Of all people in the world, why did it have to be him?


	27. The Bear and the Maiden Fair

**A/N:** Just a friendly reminder — as much as I adore people's reviews and love hearing suggestions, if you leave a comment that is purely negative and gives me no construction criticism whatsoever, I will simply just remove/report it. This is MY story, stemming from MY imagination, which means only I can make the decision which path it will take. If the things in this story seem unlikely to you, that's your problem, not mine. I had a very specific vision for how I wanted this story to go, and I plan on sticking with it, regardless of how "absurd" it may seem.

In addition to this, I'd like to address one of the more offensive comments — that Rose doesn't make any sense because of "the amount of men she lets into her bed". Um . . . really? I thought we were past shaming women for having multiple sexual partners like it's something to be ashamed of, but apparently not! Rose is a real girl. She's equal parts strong and vulnerable. She adores her family. She loves a boy she thinks doesn't love her back. And, she likes to have sex (the shame of it!). If she has an attraction to someone, she will pursue it. I wish I'd been brought up on more characters that are so shameless and comfortable with human intimacy. But, if the thought of a woman being able to (sexually) do what she wants disgusts you, this probably isn't the story for you. Go take your sexist, backwards bullshit elsewhere.

Annnnnd rant over! That felt good. I'd like to reiterate how much I appreciate the people who follow this story and leave me such encouraging comments. This is my first fanfiction for Game of Thrones, so it does not go unnoticed.

Now, on with the story!

* * *

 **The Bear and the Maiden Fair**

"If we die, we die. But first, we'll live."

* * *

Rose feels a strange sense of relief, being back in Southern attire. She loves the silky fabrics, the way it looks on her body. Her hair, on the other hand, she chooses to wear in loose waves over her shoulders. She hasn't the energy for the elaborate Southern updos.

She steps out into the warmth, into the intricately-cut gardens. She finds Sansa standing a distance from the canopy. A pretty girl, or rather a woman, stands in front of her, a blood orange flower between her fingers.

"I've been looking everywhere for you," Rose calls.

Sansa turns at the sound of her voice. Her eyes are red and puffy like she's spent all morning crying. But it's the woman who speaks first. "You must be Lady Rose," she gasps, reaching over and placing a gentle hand on her arm. "It's so wonderful to meet you." Her voice is light as air.

Rose frowns. "Do I—?"

"Rose, this is Lady Margaery," Sansa introduces, sniffling. "Joffrey's betrothed."

"Of course." Rose gives her a smile. "Sorry, I'm out of sorts today."

"That's alright." Margaery beams and looks her, up and down, shaking her head in bewilderment. "I'm rather jealous of your bloodline, Sansa, if all Stark girls are as beautiful as the two of you." Rose and Sansa exchange bashful looks. Together, the three of them start to walk back up and through the gardens. "We were just discussing your sister's new engagement."

Rose sighs, wrapping an arm around Sansa. "I've tried to tell her. It's not all bad."

Sansa wipes at her wet cheeks. "He's a Lannister."

"Not the _worst_ Lannister there is." Rose gives her a pointed look.

Sansa's eyes blow wide. "I'm sorry," she gasps, turning to Margaery. "Here I am complaining to _you_ . . ."

Margaery grins. "My son will be king," she muses. "Sons learn from their mothers. I plan to teach mine a great deal. And your son, if I'm not mistaken, your son might be the Lord of Casterly Rock and the North someday."

 _No, he won't_ , Rose thinks, bitterly.

Sansa abruptly stops in her tracks. "My son," she repeats, nervously. "With him." She looks towards Rose, who gives her what she hopes is a reassuring smile. "I'll have to . . . _we'll_ have to . . ." she trails off, starting to walk again, at a much slower pace.

Margaery sighs. "If it's the pain you're worried about—"

"I'm not afraid of the pain," she insists, quietly. "Not after what Joffrey's done to me."

Rose flinches. "What is it, then?" When Sansa gives her a sideways glance, she breaks out in a smile. "I always thought he was rather handsome. Even with that scar."

" _Especially_ with that scar," Margaery says, grinning.

"He's a dwarf," Sansa murmurs. "And Loras . . . _Loras_ ," she finishes with a small laugh.

Margaery gazes ahead, out into the gardens. "Some women like tall men," she muses. "Some like short men. Some like hairy men. Some like bald men. Gentle men, rough men, ugly men, pretty men, pretty _girls_. Most women don't know what they like until they've tried it. And, sadly, so many of us get to try so little before we're old and grey." Her hand clasps Sansa's, squeezing it, gently. "Tyrion may surprise you."

Rose nods. "He's quite experienced, from what I've heard."

"And that's a good thing?"

"It can be," Margaery insists. "We're very complicated, you know. Pleasing us takes practise."

"How do you know all this?" Sansa asks. "Did your mother teach you?"

Margaery stares at her. Her focus shifts briefly to Rose, who gives her a sly smile. "Yes, sweet girl," she says, eventually, linking their arms. "My mother taught me." When Sansa looks away, she winks at Rose over her shoulder. Rose says nothing but stares back in surprise.

"Mother never spoke of such things to us," Sansa mumbles. With a frown, she looks to Rose. "Surely it should be _you_ marrying Lord Tyrion. You're the eldest daughter."

Rose sucks in a bracing breath. "That's what Littlefinger said." When the three women reach the fountain, they sit down on the edge, listening to the water gushing over. "He seems to think that Lord Tywin will force me to wed Jaime Lannister when he returns, the Kingslayer. But, you mustn't tell Lord Tyrion that," she adds, quickly.

"Why not?"

"It's . . . difficult to explain," she mumbles.

Rose flashes a nervous look to Margaery, who nods, a knowing look on her face. "We're all to be family, soon," she chirps, her sing-song voice causing the tension to disappear. "Sansa and I have known each other for some time now." Stretching her arm over, she grips onto Rose's hand. "I want to know everything there is to know about the Rose of Winterfell."

* * *

Rose knocks on the door but doesn't wait for a reply. Boldly, she steps in, though her heart hammers in her chest. Tyrion and Bronn are sat at the table, clearly in deep conversation, glasses of wine in their hands.

Tyrion looks mildly surprised. "My Lady. Good to see you alive and well."

"I need a word," she mutters.

Tyrion lifts an eyebrow, giving Bronn a look. With a sigh, he takes his feet from the table, gulps down the rest of his wine and crosses the room. As he passes Rose, he gently pats her shoulder, then shuts the door behind him.

Rose hovers, watching as Tyrion rises to his feet and begins refilling his cup. "Allow me to apologise, first of all."

"For what?"

"For sending you away." He turns his head, genuine shame on his face. "It was a foolish gamble, sending a young girl to the firing line."

Rose chuckles, humourlessly. "I don't feel so young. Not anymore."

Tyrion peers at her, curiously. He pours a second cup of wine and outstretches his hand, offering it to her. A bundle of nerves, Rose walks over to the table and takes it, mouthing her thanks. Together, they sit down, each releasing heavy sighs.

"I want to talk to you about Sansa," she begins.

"Ah." He grins. "So, you didn't knock on my door for the pleasure of my company?"

"Tyrion." Rose's voice becomes firm, and it wipes the smile from his lips. "I don't have a say in the matter, but . . ." she pauses, leans forward and looks him, dead in the eye. "If you hurt my sister, I will kill you. Slowly. And painfully."

He blinks, unsettled. Then, the corners of his mouth twist into a wry smile. "Understood, My Lady."

"Good." Rose slumps back in her seat, letting out a slow breath. "If I'm honest . . . better you than the King."

Tyrion nods. "I'll take that as a compliment."

She stares at him. For a moment, she can't pinpoint what looks so different about him. Then, she notices the long slash mark across his face, beginning from his temple, ending at his jawline. "What happened to your face?" she whispers.

Tyrion takes a sip of wine. "A good question." He traces the scar, derisively. "Apparently, someone in King's Landing would like to see my head on a spike."

Rose grimaces. "Joffrey?"

"Joffrey."

She scoffs, disgusted. Taking a large gulp of her wine, she lets the information sink in. With the newfound courage stemming from the drink, she asks, "Can I tell you a secret?" in a soft voice. He raises his brow, curious. "The thought of seeing Joffrey again, after you sent me away, terrifies me. I've been avoiding him. Your father seems to believe he has no right to punish me, but . . ." she winces. "This is Joffrey. He wants control and tears down anyone who challenges it."

"If my lord father orders your protection, he will oblige."

Rose frowns. "But Joffrey is the king."

"He is." Tyrion nods, slowly. "Does that make him the most powerful man in Westeros?"

"Maybe not, but it makes him dangerous," Rose protests. "He's a wayward monster with a crown. And, what happens when your father is gone and the influence is broken?"

Tyrion sighs, setting his cup down. "My Lady, I doubt you'll be spending the rest of your life under Joffrey's roof," he insists, grinning at the relief on her face. "Soon enough, you'll be married yourself. You'll go where your husband takes you."

Rose chews on her lip. Then, she shrugs. "Alright. I'll repose, for now." She leans back in her seat, finishing her cup with two big gulps. The bundle of nerves in her belly eases with each sip; she can understand now why Tyrion drinks as much as he does. Her face morphs into a dry smile. "On my travels, I heard a certain rumour that the Imp of Casterly Rock led the defence of the city during the Battle of Blackwater."

"Really?" Tyrion looks genuinely pleased. "Good to know people have been talking about it." Shaking his head, the mirth vanishes from his face. "I saved the city, but the glory was stripped from me mere seconds later."

Rose rolls her eyes. "Don't pretend you do things for glory. All the stupid people do. And _you_ are the least stupid man I know."

Tyrion smirks. "You haven't known many men, have you?"

"I've known more than you think." Her smile dims.

He sees this. "Theon Greyjoy. Is he a stupid man?"

"Yes," Rose answers, instantly. "He risked everything for glory. Including me." Her chest begins to hurt again, with the mention of his name. A quick swig of wine dulls it a little. "But, he's brave and protective and kind, when he wants to be. Qualities that are tough to find in people nowadays."

Tyrion peers at her. "Would you like some hard advice, Lady Rose?"

"Tell me and we'll find out."

Tyrion leans forward, his eyes fixated on hers. "I doubt you will ever come across a man who is truly worthy of you," he confesses. "I've met many women in my years — perhaps _too_ many — but none of them, not one, has ever been as utterly selfless as you. So, try not to settle for the first one that claims your heart." He averts his gaze to the floor. "Love can blind us and make us do foolish things. Especially our first loves. Try not to let it cloud your judgement. We only have one short, pitiful life. Best spent it with someone who deserves you."

Rose stares at him. She feels a strange warmth spreading through her, forcing a smile onto her face. Perhaps she could get used to the idea of Tyrion marrying her sister after all.

* * *

Sansa and Rose spend the rest of the afternoon together.

In the few days they've spent together, Rose can already see the change in her. Not only is she taller, towering well above her now, and her wealth of red hair longer, but she holds her chin up with the dignity she hasn't seen since they left the North. She tells her about the Hound, how he had rescued her from a riot in King's Landing, then deserted at the Battle of Blackwater. She tells her how she finally flowered. How Cersei had been nothing but rotten to her. How she'd swooned over Loras Tyrell, how upset she'd been when their plans to be married had failed.

"He's so gracious and brave," she mumbles, twirling her hair around her finger. "The thought of finally leaving this place meant so much to me. We should have fled with Lord Baelish when we had the chance."

Rose clasps her hand. "Sansa, if the Lannisters found us, they'd have slaughtered us. And killed him for helping. It sounds ridiculous, but we're safer becoming Lannisters than running from them. Joffrey won't be able to touch you after the wedding. Lord Tywin won't allow it."

Sansa looks at her, eyes shining. "I'm not afraid of him anymore."

Rose smiles, gently. "You needn't be."

Sansa sits up on the bed, crossing her legs. "Will you tell me what happened in Winterfell now?"

Rose sucks in a tense breath. "I'm not finished hearing about _your_ stories," she insists, trying to keep her voice steady. "Have you made any new friends? Have people been kind to you? What about Ser Alastair?" she frowns as the thought strikes her suddenly. "Has he been looking out for you?"

Sansa blinks, looking lost for words. "Rose," she gasps. "I — I'm sorry, I thought you knew. Ser Alastair's dead."

Rose feels her chest constricting. She repeats the words over and over again in her head. "What?"

"He was killed at the Battle of Blackwater, months ago."

She blinks. "Oh."

"I'm sorry," Sansa whispers. "I know he meant a lot to you."

"No, he . . ." Rose trails off. Memories of him come flashing through her brain; his sweet smile, the way he held her, the taste of his mouth, their naked bodies warming one another. _Alastair_. Her throat suddenly hurts. She bites her lip, feeling tears in her eyes. "He was kind to us, is all."

Sansa tilts her head. "Why was he so kind? He had no reason to be."

Rose sniffles, trying to gather herself. "Some people don't need a reason to be kind. Sometimes, they just are."

* * *

" _It hurts to sleep. It hurts to eat. Sometimes, it hurts to breathe. Every time I close my eyes, I see his sword dripping with father's blood." Her chin quivers. "I think about my mother and how heartbroken she must be. And my brothers. Jon, Theon. And Arya, wherever she may be. I wanted to protect him so badly, and—"_

 _Rose trails off, her face crumpling, sobbing for the first time in days. They rack her chest, shaking her entire body. She can feel Alastair behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, kissing her hair. "None of this is your fault," he whispers, softly. "You must know that."_

 _Rose wipes at her tears. "I feel like I've lost a part of myself."_

" _A part of you left when he died." His fingers play with her braid. "Then, perhaps a part of him stayed with you, too."_

 _She nods, sniffling. "I hope so. I never want to forget how much he loved us."_

 _Alastair hums into her hair, rocking her back and forth. She looks out at the sun, which looks ready to set in the early evening. It feels good to have him hold her like this, with no other sound but the birdsong. His lips plant a single kiss against her exposed neck . . ._

* * *

Rose opens her eyes. The canopy above her snaps into view. A trembling breath escapes her, tears flowing down her cheeks, dampening the pillows. How can two years have passed since that day? How he can be gone, so suddenly?

Quietly, she gets out of bed, flinging the covers from her. Not bothering to wrap a shawl around herself, she steps out onto the balcony, leaning against the parapet. The night is lit with the full moon, but there are hardly any stars in the sky. She can see the ocean rippling against the shore, grazing it, then disappearing back into itself. She watches it for a long time. If she closes her eyes, she can almost picture Alastair standing behind her, holding her, comforting her . . .

It seems that death has been haunting her since the day her father was executed.

With the quiet moment, she finds herself thinking about Arya. Could she be dead? A part of her doubts it; a part of her clings to the hope that she's out there, somewhere. On adventures, maybe. Or, perhaps she made it to Castle Black. Jon would look after her. Maybe they're all together — Jon, and Arya, and Theon. If he ever made it. And Bran and Rickon . . . _please let them be alive, wherever they are_.

Wiping her face, she takes a deep breath of the cool air.

"Beautiful night."

Rose almost screams. She jumps at the sight of him, standing next to her, leaning against the parapet with a smug look on his face. "Your Grace . . . what are you—?" she catches her breath, trying again. "What are you doing here?"

Joffrey grins. "I wanted to pay you a visit. We haven't had a chance to talk since you arrived back in the South."

Rose swallows, her heart pounding in her chest. "If you're looking for an apology—"

"I'm not." Joffrey steps closer to her, making her flinch, and lowers his voice. "I understand why you did what you did," he confesses. "It was very gallant, storming off to Winterfell to save your little brothers. A truly heroic deed, it was." He tilts his head to look at her, his eyes bearing into hers. "Do you know what they say about Stannis Baratheon? How he leads his men into battle, the picture of chivalry, looking death in the eye without even blinking. A heroic man, indeed." He steps even closer, his voice biting now. "And did you hear how I crushed him at the Battle of Blackwater?"

Rose meets his gaze, boldly. "What I heard, Your Grace, is that you uncle led the forces while you hid in the Red Keep . . . with the women and children," she adds, with a small smile.

Joffrey clenches his jaw. He raises his hand and strikes her, hard across the face. The sound echoes into the night, along with her gasp of pain. "Whoever told you that is a liar," he snaps. Rose straightens herself up, her ears ringing, but refusing to let this show on her face. "You've very chivalrous yourself, My Lady, but leave the acts of bravery to the men in the future." He looks her, up and down, smirking. "We both know there's only one thing you're good for."

Something inside of her cracks. Whether it's the empty threats, the slap, or his mere presence, she doesn't know. But, it fuels a fire in the pit of her belly.

"Do we?" she asks, tilting her head. Pushing her emotions aside, she closes whatever distance is between them, standing so close to him, their breaths collide. "How can you be so sure when you've never tried it?"

Joffrey blinks, startled. Rose takes the opportunity of his astonishment to nudge him into the chair behind him, where he stumbles into it, eyes wide. "You told me you'd always wondered what it was like to fuck a Stark girl," she whispers. It feels as though her mind no longer tethered to her body. "We're wild, us Northerners. Us _wolves_."

Slowly, she mounts him, sinking down onto his lap. Joffrey's hands remain, frozen at his sides, unsure what to do with them. "Could you handle it, Your Grace?" she asks, coyly. "I bet you think about it all the time. What it looks like." Carefully, she places her hands against his chest, balancing herself. "What it _feels_ like." Suddenly, she rolls her hips.

Joffrey gasps. He grabs her wrists, his fingers tight. "Enough," he rasps.

Rose stops moving, sitting back with a smile. "I understand. It easier to feign it, to pretend to be something you're not." With a sigh, she gets up from his lap and heads back over to the parapet. "To pretend you're in control."

The chair scrapes as he leaps up from it. He lashes out and grabs her hair, pushing her forward so she's leaning over the parapet. She feels the air knock out of her lungs as she's forced to look down at the ground, miles and miles beneath the balcony. Joffrey crushes into her from behind. "I'll have plenty of opportunities to touch you, My Lady," he growls, sharply tugging her hair, the pain making her gasp. "Remember that."

Then, he releases her, and she feels him vanish from behind her. Cautiously, she looks over her shoulder to see the door of her chambers slamming shut. _I hate him_ , she thinks, through gritted teeth. _I will kill that man, that_ boy _, if it's the last thing I do on this earth._

* * *

 **A/N:** love a little Joffrey/Rose power-play, obvs. Quick question: what do you think Joffrey's opinion is on Rose? His truthful, honest opinion? Do you think he's fascinated by someone so sexually open? Do you think he's threatened by her? Or, do you think he prefers her over Sansa? Let me know in the reviews!


	28. Second Sons

**Second Sons**

"I think mothers and fathers made up the gods because they wanted their children to sleep through the night."

* * *

When Rose enters her chambers, Sansa is still fast asleep, tucked underneath the mass of sheets. Shae quietly follows her in, carrying the tray of food in her hands. At the sound of approaching footsteps, Sansa stirs, stretching out her limbs, peeking out from under the covers.

"Good morning," Rose greets.

"Good morning." Sansa straightens up, leaning against the headboard. Her mane of flaming red hair is curly and wild, glistening in the sunlight that streams through the window. For a split second, Rose is intensely jealous of just how beautiful she is.

Shae sets the tray down on the bed, then scurries out of the room with a surly look on her face. Rose frowns, but doesn't dwell on it. "Breakfast in bed," she grins, sitting down at Sansa's bedside. "I thought you could use it. How did you sleep?"

"I didn't." Sansa stares at the food on the tray, blankly. "Not really."

Rose bites down on her lip. "I'd be the same," she confesses. Squirming, uncomfortably on the bed, she adds, "If there's anything you want to talk about, about the wedding or — well, everything that comes after, I'm here."

Sansa's cheeks turn pink. "I thought I wouldn't be so afraid of the . . . _after part_ , but now it's all I can think about."

Rose peers at her. She levels the decision she's about to make in her head. Then, with a reluctant sigh, she shuffles closer to her. "Would you like to know a secret?" she asks, in a hushed voice. Sansa nods, looking up. "I've known a man before."

Sansa frowns. "You mean, you've—?"

"I shouldn't talk about it." Rose fidgets with the fabric of her dress, embarrassed. "I know that ladies aren't supposed to discuss these things. But, if there _is_ anything you want to ask me . . ."

Sansa's eyes narrow. "Who was it?"

"It's not important."

"Ser Alastair?" Sansa gasps, breaking out in a smile.

Rose can't resist a small grin. She prods her sister in the side. "I said it's not important!"

Sansa giggles, and the tension in the room seems to disappear. She ponders this. After a moment, she asks in a small voice, "Does it truly, truly hurt the first time?"

Rose sucks in a breath. "At the start. When he . . . puts it in, it can do. But, if you relax and make sure you're fully — um, _stimulated_ , then it's not so bad." For a moment, she thinks Sansa will burst out laughing. Instead, she nods, listening intently with a small frown on her face. "If he is hurting you, you are allowed to speak up. Don't suffer in silence. Or, if you like something that he is doing, you can say, too. Men like to know when they're doing something right."

Her mind drifts with memories of her first time with Theon. She remembers when he first put himself inside of her, how she'd gasped and tears had sprung to her eyes. He'd caught her gaze, looking her dead in the eye. Then, he'd planted soft kisses over her face, her lips, her eyes, her cheeks . . . and slowly, gradually, sunk deeper into her. And that moment when her body finally accepted him felt like heaven.

Rose takes Sansa's hand and gives it a squeeze. "The most important thing is that you're comfortable with what he's doing to you." She averts her gaze, still unsure. Rose grins, tilting her chin up to look her in the eye. "You know, father would be so proud to see how you're handling things," she whispers. "How strong you've become."

Sansa smiles, weakly. "I'm not as strong as you."

"You're strong in your own way, just as I am strong in mine." She shrugs. "Look at everything we've survived."

A single tear slides down Sansa's cheek. She wipes at it with a small chuckle. She sinks into her sister's embrace, their arms wrapping around each other, squeezing tightly. "Rose?" she mumbles into her shoulder. "You won't leave me again, will you?"

Rose shakes her head. "No," she whispers. "Not ever."

* * *

The large, oak doors swing open.

Rose squints in the sunlight that streams through, trying to catch a glimpse. There stands her little sister, taller than ever, her hair in a Southern updo, wearing a dress of ivory and gold. Suddenly, she looks very, very grown-up.

The crowd falls into a hush, parting on either side of the hall. Rose stands at the very front, between Cersei and Tywin. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see the sneer on Cersei's face, as though the entire thing is a huge joke, and feels a swelling rage in the pit of her stomach. _Don't snap. Don't do anything stupid_.

She watches as the King crosses over to Sansa, moving to stand at her side. Rose frowns as they share a fleeting, whispered conversation before Joffrey offers his arm. With a subtle roll of her eyes, Sansa takes it. Together, in matching strides, they make their way down the series of steps, into the hall. The doors clang shut behind them.

As they draw nearer, Sansa's eyes search the crowds, clearly trying to find Rose's face. When she spots her, standing at the front, she seems to visibly relax. A small smile even crosses her lips. They continue to walk down the aisle, the hall so large, it seems to take forever. Sansa lifts her skirt above her ankles as they walk up the steps to where Tyrion is standing, dressed in a neat red tunic, a cloak draped over his arm.

As they pass, Joffrey's gaze flits over Rose. She feels her heart stop, momentarily, seeing the taunting glint flashing in his eyes. But, she grits her teeth and lifts her chin, not letting the anxiety show on her face.

Finally, they reach the top. Joffrey turns, smiling down at Tyrion. Without warning, he grabs the stool at his side and drags it back down the steps with him. Tyrion opens his mouth to protest but clearly thinks better of it, turning to face the front. Joffrey barges in between Tywin and Rose, standing at her side, peering at her with a smirk on his face. She flinches at the sudden proximity but says nothing.

"You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection," the Septon announces.

Sansa turns around, so her back is to Tyrion. Rose looks on, feeling the sudden urge to vomit. Tyrion is not even half her size, barely reaching her waist. He takes his time, rummaging with the cloak, then approaches her from behind. His hands hover up, awkwardly, unable to reach her.

Joffrey is the first to start chuckling. Then, more sniggers from the crowd follow, some louder than others.

Sansa's head whips around. Tyrion looks at her, apologetically. "Could you—?" he trails off, gesturing with his hands. Compliantly, Sansa sinks down to her knees, and he gently draws the cloak over her shoulders. "Thank you," he murmurs. Sansa nods and straightens up into a standing position, and together, they face the front.

"Your Grace," the Septon looks to Joffrey, then to Cersei. "Your Grace. My lords, my ladies. We stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever."

* * *

The wedding feast seems to rumble on for a century.

Rose sits at the table, quietly draining wine cup after wine cup, between the King and Lord Tywin. She keeps her focus on Sansa and Tyrion at their own table, right at the front of the hall, the latter drinking more excessively than usual. It seems that most people, scattered throughout the room, have comforted themselves with a glass.

Across the room, Rose can see Margaery sitting with her brother, Loras, and an elderly woman she assumes is their grandmother, Olenna Tyrell. Whatever she's saying to them, it sits unpleasantly with Loras, who rises to his feet, chair scraping, and storms off with a red face.

"More wine, My Lady?"

Rose holds up her cup. "Please." The servant fills her glass to the brim, and she quickly takes two large gulps.

Joffrey turns to look at her. "What's the matter?" he taunts. "Aren't you enjoying the feast?"

She sets the cup down. "A wedding feast just delays the inevitable, Your Grace." Her voice slurs a little.

"You mean the bedding ceremony?" Joffrey leans in closer, so only she can hear him. She jumps when she feels his hand gripping her thigh under the table, slipping it through the slit of her dress, moving inwards. "When my uncle fucks your sister, I'll have you standing right outside, listening to her cries," he sneers. "I hear the first time is quite painful for a woman." His hand squeezes her tighter, making her gasp. "Would you agree?"

Rose clenches her cup, her teeth gritted. "A real man knows how to diminish the pain and make it more pleasurable," she says, under her breath. "Just like a real man knows how to take control without causing such torment."

"Watch your tongue," Joffrey hisses. "I may not be able to kill you, but I can cut it out if I wish." He's leaned in so close to her now, she can smell the wine on his breath. "It'd be a shame. When I drag you into my bed, I'd like to hear you scream."

His hand slides further, into her inner thigh. With a gasp, Rose leaps from her chair, and his grip disappears. People turn their heads to stare, and she feels heat rising to her cheeks. Brushing down her dress, she quickly retreats from the room, angry tears stinging her eyes. _I hate him, I hate him, I hate him._

She makes it up the stairs, out of sight from guests and guards. When, finally, she reaches the balcony, she leans over it, inhaling the salty sea-water air. It doesn't make her feel any better. Her cheeks are flushed, and she can feel nausea rising in her throat.

"Lean over any further, and we'll be fishing you out of the sea."

Rose turns to see Bronn standing at her side, dressed all in black. He's peering at her with amusement, and a touch of concern. She smiles at him. "I've never lived this close to it before."

"You won't be getting any closer to the waters tonight, My Lady." He grins, leaning against the parapet.

Rose stares out at the rippling ocean. "Waters," she muses, the word tumbling out of her lips, almost uncontrollably. "Pyke. Snow." She sucks in a deep breath, a sadness swelling in her chest. "My brother, Jon, he's a bastard. The Bastard of Winterfell. I was never jealous of that title." Her eyes narrow. "I saw the way people treated him when we were younger. He was an outcast. A walking reminder that my father was unfaithful to my mother. I never saw him that way, of course. He was just my big brother."

She can feel the wetness of her tears spilling down her cheeks, but it feels nice against her blushing face. "For the first time in my life, I wish I _were_ a bastard," she whispers. "I'd have stayed in Winterfell, with him. I never would have left . . . never would have come here, to the capital. I wouldn't be the Rose of Winterfell. I'd be . . . Rose," she finishes, humming a watery laugh. "Plain, ordinary Rose. No King would want to touch me or . . . hurt me." She bites down, hard on her bottom lip. "No man would ever want to hurt me."

Bronn shifts at her side. For a split second, she'd forgotten he was standing there. "Plenty worse out there than Joffrey," he insists, clearing his throat. "He's a cunt, but he's also a coward. All mouth and no talk."

Rose buries her forehead in her hands. "I'm going to punch him in that mouth."

Bronn chuckles. "I'd pay good money to see that."

She wipes at her face, straightening up. She feels very, very nauseous now. "I need to lie down."

"There's a smart idea." Gently, Bronn takes her by the shoulders, steadying her when she starts to sway. _Or is that just the room spinning around me?_ "Come on," he sighs. "There's a good girl." Keeping a firm hold on her, he leads her back towards the staircase.

There's the sound of hands clapping together, and a voice calling, "time for the bedding ceremony!"

Rose blinks, turning her head. Joffrey has her sister by the hand, dragging her down the staircases with a viciously mirthful grin on his face. She shrugs out of Bronn's grip, making a move to follow them, but he quickly nabs her arm again, holding her back.

"There will be no bedding ceremony," Tyrion grumbles.

Joffrey reaches the bottom of the stairs, hauling a frightened Sansa at his side. "Where's your respect for tradition, Uncle? Come, everyone! Pick her up and carry her to her wedding bed! Get rid of her gown. She won't be needing it any longer." He chuckles when Sansa's arms cross, protectively over her stomach. "Ladies, attend to my uncle! He's not heavy."

"There will be no bedding ceremony," Tyrion repeats, louder this time.

Joffrey's jaw sets. "There will be if I command it!"

Tyrion raises his knife and jams it into the wooden table. "Then you'll be fucking your own bride with a wooden cock," he snarls. The crowd falls into an appalled hush as heads turn to stare at the unfolding scene. Lord Tywin's chair scrapes in the soundless room as he rises, warily to his feet.

The expression on Joffrey's face is so comical, one of horror and fury, a sudden laugh escapes Rose. Quickly, she slaps her hand over her mouth, but no one seems to notice.

"What did you say?" Joffrey hisses, his voice deadly quiet. "What . . . did you . . . _say_?"

"I believe we can dispense with the bedding, Your Grace," Tywin calls, stiffly. "I'm sure Tyrion did not mean to threaten the King."

Tyrion's grip slackens on the knife. His face melts from pure rage to amusement. A drawn out, wheezing laugh bursts from him like a tiny explosion. "A bad joke, Your Grace," he insists, his voice slurred. "Made out of envy of your own royal manhood. Mine is so small," he complains, looking down at his lap. "My poor wife won't even know I'm there."

Tywin lifts an eyebrow. "Your uncle is clearly quite drunk, Your Grace."

"I am," Tyrion chuckles. "Guilty." He raises his wine glass, taking a large swig. Staggering, he gets to his feet, slipping from the chair. "But . . . it is my wedding night. My tiny drunk cock and I have a job to do." Too quickly, he moves to walk around the table, and sways, dramatically into another. "Come, wife," he calls.

Sansa glances up at Rose, a pleading look in her eye. Bronn's grip tightens on her arm, pointedly, and she can do nothing but nod in encouragement. Reluctantly, Sansa follows a drunk, rambling Tyrion for the door.

"I vomited on a girl once in the middle of the act. Not proud of it. But, I think honesty is important between a man and wife, don't you agree? Come, I'll tell you all about it. Put you in the mood."

* * *

 **A/N:** Just to revisit my notes from yesterday — the review that I deleted came from one specific anonymous account that left something purely hurtful about Rose's character, without any clear, true analysis of my story. I don't take back anything I said yesterday, or the tone that I used, because this is something I am passionate about, and something we should all learn to be passionate about, too.

I am, rightfully so, furious that someone would attack a woman's free choice to have casual sex. Rose's choice to explore her sexuality isn't something I connected to the time period. For me, she was a girl who had a huge crush on a boy, and, at some point in their relationship, they started having sex (as teenagers tend to do). Then, she moved to the capital, where everything was so different and exciting, and she wanted to indulge herself. Now, with everything that she has lost, she is desperate for human connection, in any way she can get it (this will be explored more in season four, which I have just started writing).

I feel like some women in Game of Thrones defy social norms, just as others conform to them. People might even say that Arya's choice to "not be a lady" is absurd for the time period too, yet we all love her because she isn't the sort of character we expect to find in medieval-type fiction. Daenerys is a good example of a high-born woman who is comfortable enough in her own skin to follow any sexual instincts she may have. There is definitely a notion in the show that sexual acts are the best representation of humanness and life ("in our joining, there is power […] to make life" — Melisandre). I don't want my work to imply that women of a certain social status, from whatever time period they may come from, are devoid of sexuality. Or, that they ALL feel the urge to repress it. That is unrealistic.

Rose is open, comfortable in her own skin, and more knowledgeable about the way the world works in comparison to Sansa. I didn't create her character with the intention that she'd have a lot of sex. That just sort of happened! Because, that's who she is as a person, and it's one of the things I hope you can love about her. Honestly, I don't like reading too deeply into my work, because it spoils the enjoyment of writing it, but I am glad I've gotten my opinion across!

On a lighter note, I'm going to start leaving questions at the end of each episode, because I'd love to hear your opinions about a few things!

 **For this week, I'll ask** : what sort of relationship can you envision Jon and Rose having? As we saw from the second chapter, they have a loving brotherly-sister bond. Can you envision this changing, should they be reunited? Would their personalities clash in any way? Let me know!


	29. The Rains of Castamere

**A/N:** contains sexual content.

* * *

 **The Rains of Castamere**

"All men should keep their word, kings most of all."

* * *

"Then, I stripped, all the way down to my smallclothes and . . . he stopped me."

Rose frowns. "Stopped you?"

"He's promised not to touch me." Sansa fidgets with her necklace, anxiously. "Not unless I want him to."

Rose exhales, a weight lifted from her shoulders. "See? I _told_ you. Tyrion's a kind man. Who knows how you'll feel about him in a month, or a year. Perhaps your feelings will change."

Sansa turns her head from the mirror. "How?"

"Never mind how." Rose rolls her eyes, grinning. "Sometimes, you meet people, build a certain impression, and don't realise just how important they'll be to you." She flinches, filled with memories of herself and Theon. How strange she'd found him, the first day she met him. How everything had changed as they'd grown. _It aches to think of him._ "If not now, then someday."

Sansa stares, considering this. "I'm sorry, I — I just can't see it," she confesses, sounding guilty. "I can't see him meaning anything to me. At least, not in that way." Slowly, she gets to her feet and sits at the table, opposite Rose. Her eyes narrow as she peers, closely at her. "What is it?"

Rose blinks, snapping out of her trance. "Nothing."

Sansa smiles, a small smile. "I can always tell when something is bothering you." Leaning over, she tugs Rose's bottom lip out from between her teeth. "You bite down on your lip."

"I do _not_."

"Yes, you do." Sansa giggles. "Septa Mordane used to rap your knuckles when you did it." Her smile fades the longer she stares at her sister. "Tell me," she pleads, clutching onto her hand.

Rose sighs, shaking her head. "I've had trouble sleeping, is all."

"I can have the Maester bring you Essence of Nightshade."

Rose smiles, timidly. "You're sweet. But, I'll be fine, thank you."

Sansa nods, unconvinced. Silently, she rises to her feet and crosses the room, heading back towards her mirror.

* * *

Rose sinks back into the bath, letting the steam of the warm water envelop her. "I needed this," she whispers.

Shae pulls up a wooden stool and sits down, next to the basin. Concerned, she stretches out a hand and brushes her thumb across her cheek. "Dark circles under your eyes," she mumbles. "You haven't been sleeping."

Rose shrugs. "There's been a lot on my mind. I wake up exhausted, and I go to sleep wide awake."

She watches, quietly, as Shae dips the washrag into the water, and squeezes it out. Gently, she tugs on Rose's arm, drawing her forward. Rose lets out a sigh as she begins rubbing the cloth in soft circles over her back. "I don't know what's _wrong_ with me," she complains. "Ever since I came back to King's Landing, I've been . . . restless. Yet, it seems there's nothing to do around here except eat lemon cakes and talk with the same high-born ladies about sewing, and dancing, and men. Not that I've been with a man in . . . over a year—?" she finishes, startled. "Has it really been _that_ long?" Her cheeks flush, with the sudden awareness of present company. "I'm sorry, if I'm boring you."

Shae grins, shaking her head. "It's alright. I like your funny accent."

Rose lifts an eyebrow. "To me, _you're_ the one with a funny accent." She leans back against the basin, whilst Shae squeezes the water from the cloth. "If you think I sound strange, you should hear my brothers. Mother and Septa made it their life's mission to tame our dialect, us girls." She hums a laugh. "Didn't want us sounding like the harsh Northerners we grew up with."

"You _are_ a Northerner," Shae insists. "A beautiful Northerner. Your mother should be proud, no matter how you speak."

Rose beams. "You are my favourite person in King's Landing," she sighs.

"Hmh." Shae grins. Carefully, she starts running the cloth over Rose's head, allowing the water to seep over her scalp and through her locks. "Your sister has red hair, like your mother and brother," she muses. "And your father, he had brown hair."

Rose nods, her eyes closing. "When I was little, I was frightened my golden hair meant I was a bastard," she confesses. "I didn't look like a Stark, nor a Tully. It was Jon who reassured me. He must have thought I was so narrow-minded, going to him with such a concern." She opens her eyes again, an ache filling her chest. "Gods, I miss him."

Shae pauses. She hangs the cloth over the edge of the basin. "My Lady, if you are feeling restless, there are ways to remedy that," she says, quietly. When Rose angles her head to look at her, a small smile tugs at Shae's lips. "You think you need a man for pleasure?" Her movements cautious and slow, she reaches into the water and picks up Rose's hand, plucking out two of her fingers. "All you need, are _these_."

Rose holds her breath. Steadily, her eyes fixed on her face, Shae draws Rose's hand back under the water and guides it between her legs. Her breath comes out in shallow gasps. The moment Rose's fingers are pressed against her womanhood, she jumps. "I couldn't—!" she stammers, tugging her hand away. She feels heat rising to her cheeks. "I've never . . . not by myself."

Shae frowns. "Then, how do you know what it is you like?" she asks. Searching her eyes, she takes Rose's hand in both of hers, their soft skins rubbing together. "When you're with a man, a man who _cares_ for your pleasure, he expects you to know your body. To know what it is that excites you, and what doesn't. A true lover cares for her own delight, moreover the delight of her mate."

Rose nibbles on her bottom lip. With a soft sigh, she tugs herself free from Shae's grip. "Go and tend to Sansa," she orders, gently. "I can finish by myself."

Shae peers at her, curiously. Her face setting, she stands, bows her head and leaves the room, the door clicking shut behind her. Rose watches her leave, rubbing her hands together. Although the thought of pleasuring herself was intriguing, her mind trails back to her assault. Every sexual impulse draws her back there, to Lorren, to Winterfell. Even if the pain has passed, the memories are still haunting.

But, when Littlefinger had kissed her that way, his lips trailing down her body, his tongue against her skin . . . that had felt so wonderful. And the longing to be back in Theon's arms again, however badly it hurt to think of him, was still there. To be naked with him. To feel him inside of her.

Rose blinks. Somehow, her fingers had ended up between her legs, grazing her entrance, responding to the rising heat in her body. Was it just possible that she could want someone so desperately after everything that's passed? Is there life, or true pleasure, after what happened to her?

All those years ago, if someone had told her that she'd fall so deeply for an Ironborn, a Greyjoy, her father's hostage, she wouldn't have believed them. But, then that one night . . .

She was fourteen, the first time they'd been together, not much younger than Sansa is now. He had just had his sixteenth name day. They'd shared a kiss or two, and his hands had touched her, once or twice. But it had never gone anywhere further than that.

It changed, one night. When they'd climbed their usual trail up the cliffs, just beyond Winterfell. It had become their place, where they could kiss and hold hands without anyone watching. Catelyn had spent the entire day lamenting about marriages and handsome lords who longed to meet Rose, all of them too old for her, none of them she'd ever met. Rose remembered how it felt, to escape the castle long enough to breathe, to have a few quiet moments to herself.

With Theon.

They'd watched the sun set beyond the battlements, the day darkening, the stars appearing. It was so beautiful, that night. Theon listened, quietly, whilst she complained and cried. Then, without a word, he'd wiped at her tear-streaked face and pulled her head closer to kiss her.

This kiss had felt different. Like he was trying to draw as much of her in as possible, fearful that she would suddenly disappear. Rose closed her eyes, loving the feeling. Then, she felt herself drifting backward, until she could feel the hard rock beneath her back. Theon's hands held her steady, as he positioned himself between her legs, balancing steadily over her. Her eyes opened, perplexed, but he looked deeply into them, a small smile on his lips.

She'd been a bundle of nerves, her insides in knots. _Surely, this was wrong. Mother had always said, this was what married couples did, that ladies should never . . . not before they're married._ But, he'd simply kissed her again . . . he leaned deeper into her, and for the first time, she felt it. His hardness, pressing right between her legs. A surprised gasp escaped her, but the friction sent waves of pleasure coursing through her as they moulded together. _How can something that's supposed to be wrong feel so right?_

They'd undressed one another, in the cold night air. But, their bodies kept one another warm. Rose hadn't the nerve to look down, to see what was about to be pushed inside of her. But, she knew she wanted it. She knew, because his hands felt incredible, wandering over her body, kneading her tiny breasts, his thumb circling her nipple, extracting whimpers from her.

Then, Theon's hands found her thighs, hoisting them upwards so her legs were wrapped around his waist. "If I hurt you, please tell me," he whispered, looking her, dead in the eye. She nodded, but remained silent, feeling him pressing against her soaked entrance.

Slowly, he had slipped into her. Rose gasped at the sharp twinge, burying her face in his shoulder. But, something else stirred in her too, something she'd never felt before. It was almost euphoric. Theon quickly took her face in his hand, cradling her. His lips found hers, brushing her with soft kisses. Carefully, he pulled back and sunk into her again, testing the waters.

The pain hadn't lasted, not as long as she'd expected. Soon, she was whimpering his name into her lips, pleading him to go faster, go deeper. It was paradise. The feeling of him pressing into her, his mouth claiming hers, every part of him claiming her, just as she was claiming him . . .

Rose blinks, shudders of euphoria pumping through her body. Her back arches against the basin as she reaches her climax, rubbing herself with intensity until it evanesces. The room echoes with her soft, needy whimpers, the water now lukewarm around her. When she opens her eyes, they are filled with tears. Shae was right. She doesn't need Theon to feel pleasure.

But, she wants him. Gods, she wants him.

* * *

The door swings open. He sits at his desk, scrawling on a piece of parchment, brow furrowed. Rose sucks in a determined breath, and steps into the room. "You wanted to see me, Lord Tywin?"

"Ah, yes." He sets down his quill, gesturing her forward. "Lady Rose. Please, sit."

She crosses the room, listening to the door shutting behind her, the guard's footsteps retreating. When she sits down, opposite him, the first thing she notices is the flagon of wine on the table, with two goblets. A small smile tugs at Tywin's mouth. "You're welcome to some if you wish."

Rose giggles, nervously. "I fear I'm becoming too reliant on it."

"Many girls in your position do." Tywin rises from his seat and rounds the table towards the flagon. Slowly, he begins pouring the two glasses. "My daughter, for example. I remember how she used to sneak wine from the kitchens when she wasn't much younger than yourself. She had the entire staff at Casterly Rock wrapped around her little finger." He extends a glass towards her, scrutinising the sour look on her face. "Though, I imagine the idea of turning into Cersei is rather horrifying to you."

Rose blinks, stunned, and takes the cup. Then, she plasters on a smile. "The Queen is — she's strong, and . . . and gentle," the words tumble out of her mouth, sounding forced. "She's been nothing but kind to me since we arrived in the South."

Tywin slumps back down into his seat. "She's bitter and overbearing, at the best of times," he grumbles. "Tell me; how can you mark the difference between a girl of the South and a girl of the North?"

"I don't know, My Lord," Rose whispers.

"Southern girls oft waste time petulant over their circumstances. Northern girls, such as yourself, take their burdens on the chin, without too much fuss."

Rose stares down at her lap. "I've certainly tried to."

"Hmh." Tywin takes a small sip of his wine, watching her. "I admire resilience. You have it in spades." Rose peers up to meet his gaze. Needing to muster her courage, she takes two gulps of her wine, relishing in the feeling of it burning down her throat. He waits until she's pulled it away from her lips, before speaking again. "D'you know why I've summoned you here?"

Rose nods. "You're going to ask me to marry your eldest son, should he return."

"He _will_ return," Tywin says, sharply. "And you will marry Jaime, thus securing his claim to the North."

Rose's eyes narrow. "He won't have a claim. He took an oath to the Kingsguard. Tyrion is your only true, male heir."

A dark look crosses Tywin's face. _He's truly frightening_. "My son will do as he's told," he snaps. "If I tell him to renounce his oath, he will do so, without question. Putting a child inside the eldest Stark girl will further this cause." He leans back in his seat, fixing her with a stern glare. "I am not asking you to marry my son, Lady Rose. I am informing you that the wedding will occur the moment he returns to King's Landing."

Rose feels anger bubbling in the pit of her stomach. "I'm not fit for marriage."

"I'm not looking for a virgin. I'm looking for a high-born girl with the right family name. Your brother will be dead soon enough, and you shall be the rightful heir to the North." Tywin drains the rest of his cup and sets it down on the table. He picks up his quill, turning back to his work. "I would remind you to keep yourself out of the King's reach for the time being. He's clearly taken an interest in you. Do not encourage his amorous advances."

Rose scowls. "You think I ask for him to grope me under the table? To threaten me with—?"

"I think you have a wild temper," Tywin interrupts. "Wild tempers tend to provoke unwanted responses."

He glances up, and their eyes lock. Rose stares back at him with nothing but contempt. "Am I dismissed, My Lord?" she spits.

"Yes." Rose swallows the rest of the wine and sets it down, with a loud clang, onto the table. She pushes herself up from her seat and crosses the room to the door. "And, Lady Rose?" Tywin calls. Rose stops, looking back over her shoulder. "I've received word that a certain Greyjoy took the black a few short months ago. Lie to me regarding the whereabouts of a traitor again, and I will have you executed. Are we understood?"

Rose blinks. _He took the black. He's safe. He's with the Night's Watch, with Jon . . ._

"Are we understood?" Tywin repeats, louder, making her jump.

She nods, eyes stinging. "Yes."

"Good."

Rose quickly turns on her heel and hurries out of the room, her entire body going numb.

* * *

 _When Rose opens her eyes, the bed beneath her is gone. She's lying on the cold, dark floor, with the leaves prickling against her scalp and the back of her neck. With a gasp, she straightens up into a sitting position, looking wildly around her. She knows these woods. The clear lining of trees, oddly neat. The grey storm clouds peeking through the canopy. She's in the Godswood, back in Winterfell._

 _Breathing laboured, Rose pushes herself to her feet. Her movements feel slow and weightless. She's dreaming, she knows it. The sound of paws padding across the forest floor makes her turn. At first, she's startled. A direwolf, with fur as grey as smoke and bright yellow eyes, stands in front of her, so large, their gazes are aligned. It stares back at her, a low whining sound escaping it._

 _Rose begins to tremble. "Grey Wind?"_

 _He takes a small step towards her, those yellow eyes bearing into hers. Her heart slams against her ribs. Slowly, cautiously, she stretches out a hand, towards his muzzle._

 _There's the sound of an arrow leaving a bow. It shoots into Grey Wind's side, causing him to whimper in pain, his legs buckling beneath him. Rose staggers back, horrified. Then, more arrows come flying, from all around the forest, somewhere in the treetops. A scream escapes her as she watches them pierce the wolf, in its side, in its face, in its back . . ._

* * *

Her eyes crack open. The ground beneath her turns to soft sheets and pillows. The treetops turn to the canopy above her bed. She splutters as her lungs fill with air, snapping upwards into a sitting position. For a split second, she searches her surroundings, looking for him. _For Theon_. He'll comfort her. Like he did the last time she had a nightmare . . . then, she remembers. She's no longer curled up at his side, at that inn, the one in Ironrath.

She's in King's Landing. And he's at the Wall.

With trembling hands, Rose brushes aside the strands of hair sticking to her clammy face. She hasn't had a nightmare in so long. And even then, they'd been plagued with the memories of her rape. Why was Grey Wind suddenly appearing in her dreams?

Unsettled, she sinks back into the sheets and stares, wide awake at the canopy.

* * *

 **A/N:** I think we all know what that dream means . . . honestly, I'm sad that I won't be able to have more Robb/Rose, Catelyn/Rose interactions because I loved writing them all together in earlier chapters. But, the red wedding is such a huge turning point in the series and I simply couldn't leave it out. How do you think Rose will react to the massacre? What will her first instinct be, as a sister, as a daughter?

ALSO, someone mentioned character ages to me yesterday, and I just wanted to clear that up. At the start of the series (season one), Robb is 17, Jon is 16, Rose is 15, Sansa is 13, Arya is 11, Bran is 10, and Rickon is 6. This would mean that Rose is 17 by now. I'm not sure whether this is accurate to the official timeline for the show, but all websites that I looked at imply that a year passes between each season, so that's what I'm sticking to for this fanfic.

Only one more episode to go (bloody hell, that went quick!)


	30. Mhysa

**A/N:** a very quick, simple chapter to finish off this season.

* * *

 **Mhysa**

"Monsters are dangerous and, just now, kings are dying like flies."

* * *

"You don't think he's handsome?"

"Of course, I think he's handsome! I'm not a complete idiot." Rose grins. She leans back in her chair, closing her eyes against the warmth of the sun. After a moment of pondering, she opens them again. "Do you really think Lord Tywin would do it?" she asks. "Make Jaime renounce his oath to the Kingsguard so he can wed me? Is it even possible?"

Margaery frowns, thinking. "Nothing is impossible to a Lannister, it would seem. Granted, I've never heard of any such thing done before." Turning, she studies the apprehensive look on Rose's face. "A lot of people have to work hard to make a marriage work," she says, softly. "Even when they're truly in love. It's not meant to be easy." A bright smile tugs at her lips. "From what I've heard, he's very gallant and charming."

Rose rolls her eyes. "You also heard that Joffrey was very gallant and charming. Or, has he not disappointed you yet?"

"There's still time for that," Margaery sighs, but then she starts laughing.

The summer breeze brushes against the marquee. Rose looks out, across the ocean, listening to the way it crashes against the rocks. "My parents were so happy together," she muses. "I suppose, that's all I've known of marriage. Honour, trust, respect. And, I've seen how frail it can be when mistakes are made." Her brow furrows into a frown. "The only thing that seems to conquer the bad days is love. So, how can a marriage without love possibly work?"

Margaery peers at her with something resembling sympathy. Then, her face breaks out into its usual, serene smile. "I'm sure someone as determined as you will figure it out," she insists.

Rose nods, and quietly sips her wine.

* * *

Late into the afternoon, Rose sits in her bed, reading, waiting for Sansa to return from the gardens. Without the sound of a knock, the door swings open. She glances up to see Cersei entering the room, with a grim look on her face.

"Your Grace." Rose shuts her book and hops off the bed, smoothing out her dress.

Cersei studies her, thoughtfully. "I'd like a word." She peers, pointedly over her shoulder. The guard catches her look, bows his head and shuts the door, leaving them alone. Cersei steps further into the room, her hands clasped in front of her. "Is your sister here?"

Rose shakes her head. "She's accompanying Lord Tyrion around the gardens."

"Good." Cersei nods. "I thought it best to come to you first."

Rose blinks, confused. She watches as Cersei pulls something out from under the sleeve of her dress; a small piece of parchment, with unfamiliar handwriting scrawled across it. For some reason, Rose feels her heart rate picking up, her stomach twisting into knots. With a small sigh, Cersei hands it to her.

Hands trembling, Rose takes it.

 _Roslin caught a fine fat trout. Her brothers gave her a pair of wolf pelts for her wedding. Signed, Walder Frey._

At first, she's confused. "What is this?" she asks. But, it's like her body knows before her mind does. _Wolf pelts._ Tears prick at her eyes, threatening to tumble down her cheeks. Everything inside of her hurts. Looking up, she meets Cersei's gaze, but can barely see her through her clouded vision. "What is this?" she repeats, brokenly.

Cersei grimaces. "Your mother and brother were traitors to the crown," she says, flatly. "To my family. That is something I cannot forgive. But, I know what it is like to grieve for a mother. For that, I offer my condolences."

 _Mother_. Rose sucks in a breath, but it aches. Her cheeks turn wet as tears flood down them.

"You should be the one to tell Sansa," Cersei's voice seems to come from miles away. "Don't let her hear it from passing gossip." Reaching out, she runs a hand over her braided head. "Be strong, little Rose."

Turning, she leaves the room.

Rose feels her legs give way, her knees crunching against the stone floor. Her hands manage to catch herself before she keels over. Every inch of her body turns numb, except for a terrible, clawing sensation at her chest, making it difficult to breathe. It hurts enough to kill her. Surely, this will kill her.

Squeezing her eyes shut, in need of a release, Rose opens her mouth and screams, loud enough to tear her throat to shreds.

* * *

 **A/N:** Season Three is officially done! WOW — it went super quickly! Thank you to everyone who has stuck by this fanfic for the past three months; it is so, so appreciated. I didn't want to go into too much detail with this final chapter, because I feel like the last scene sort of does the trick in terms of Rose's emotional state. Here's the question that I will leave you with: when Sansa lost the remaining members of her family, we saw one of the biggest (and one of my personal favourite) character arcs in GOT. She went from a meek little girl to a badass politician. Season Four is going to see a big change for the Stark girls. How do you think this particular loss will affect Rose? How will it change her?

Season Four will (hopefully) be up at the start of May! I'm pretty early on in the writing process, as I'm recovering from a heap of university coursework, but I will aim to get it all up in time. So, by the time Season Four of this fanfiction has started, WE'LL BE HALFWAY THROUGH GOT SEASON EIGHT! How excited are we all for the final season?! It's so funny to me, because I have this vision of Rose's journey over the next few seasons, but I'm not going to have any idea how her story ends until the final season has aired. I can't wait to hear your thoughts/opinions! See you sometime after 8x03!


	31. Two Swords

**A/N:** this chapter contains mild sexual references.

* * *

 **Two Swords**

"Fine little blade. Maybe I'll pick my teeth with it."

* * *

The morning dawns dreary. The mood, even drearier.

Jon swings his legs around the side of the bed and plants his feet on the ground. With each movement, his sealed wounds burn, sharply. Each time they do, his mind drifts back to _her_ . . . to her red hair, the blazing look on her face when she kissed him —

A sharp knock on the door breaks him out of his thoughts. Before he can speak, it eases open, tentatively.

Theon's head pokes around the side. Slowly, he trudges in, then closes the door behind him. "Jon," he greets, his voice small. He doesn't meet his gaze, instead staring, intently at the floor. "I'd like a word."

Jon stares. His entire body fills with a simmering rage, that longs to be stamped out with a blade to the man's throat. Or to pin him to the ground and punch him until his knuckles break. Not trusting himself to move, he clenches the edge of the bed with his fists. "I've nothing to say to you."

"You don't have to talk," Theon insists. "Just listen."

Unable to help himself, Jon rises to his feet. He advances, watching as Theon visibly shrinks back, his eyes still refusing to meet his. "The only reason I'm not killing you where you stand is because I swore some vows, and pledged myself to a brotherhood," he growls. "A brotherhood you're damn lucky to be a part of."

Theon nods, silently. His chin tilts, so their eyes finally meet. "If you won't listen to me . . ." he trails off, fumbling about in the pocket of his breeches. He draws out a piece of sealed parchment and hands it to him. "At least, listen to your sister."

Jon frowns, taking it. He looks at the seal — the direwolf. The Stark sigil.

Hesitantly, he opens it, and his heart misses a beat.

* * *

 _Jon,_

 _I write this in the hope that you're alive and well, and that I shall see you again someday soon. I have been sent away from King's Landing under the obligation that I will return. For some time, I was a hostage in Winterfell, but now I am in Riverrun, with Robb and mother. As you read this, I may have returned to the South already._

 _If Theon has indeed made it to Castle Black, I ask that you spare him your rage. Rumours may have suggested Theon murdered Bran and Rickon, but our brothers are very much alive, that I can promise you. Theon is taking the black to atone for his mistakes under the orders of Robb. I am not asking you to forgive him. I only ask that you show him mercy from your wrath, as I have done._

 _I love you. I miss you. Keep yourself safe._

 _Your sister, Rose._

* * *

Jon rereads the words, feeling a gaping hole in his chest. _Rose_. The last time he'd spoken to her, she'd been in her chambers, weeping over his departure. He'd held her until her sobs had quieted, and told her that it wasn't goodbye . . . except, it had been. He'd half-thought she was dead. Instinctively, his thumb trails over her name, written on the page.

"Bran and Rickon are alive," he murmurs.

"They are."

Jon looks up. "Where?"

Theon shakes his head, ruefully. "I'm not sure."

Jon lets out an unsteady breath and turns his back, unable to look at his face. He finds himself staring back down at Rose's pretty handwriting. Suddenly, he whips back around. "Did you force her to write this?"

Theon frowns, alarmed. "No. I'd never — I'd never hurt her, not again."

 _Again_. Jon snarls and crosses the room in two, large strides. Grabbing Theon by the scruff of his neck, he slams him against the wall, pressing him into it. "You may not have killed my brothers, but you betrayed my family," he snaps. "You stormed my home, and held my sister hostage. Call yourself a Greyjoy all you want. Our father was more of a father to you than yours ever was." Releasing him, he takes a step back, disgust written all over his face. "I won't murder you. But, you're no brother of mine. Not anymore."

Theon presses his lips together. After a prolonged silence, he turns and heads for the door. Jon watches as he leaves the room, crumpling the piece of parchment in his fist.

* * *

Rose awakens to the feeling of hair tickling her face. Opening her eyes, she tilts her head back to see Sansa has curled up to her side, her wild, red mane spread out across the pillows.

Even though she's sound asleep, Rose can see the dark circles under her eyes — it took all night to calm her down, to ease her tears. Some nights are better than others. Some nights, she lies there and refuses to say anything, staring upwards at the canopy. Other nights, she pours her heart out, weeping into Rose's shoulder until she exhausts herself.

Rose cannot remember the last time she cried. The last time she _allowed_ herself to cry.

Feeling the same thing she has felt every morning — a dull, painful ache inside of her chest — she flings the sheets off her and climbs out of bed, as quietly as possible. Crossing the room, she heads straight to the vanity box sitting in front of the mirror. Inside it, buried amidst the necklaces, pearls and other fine jewellery, sits her dagger. With its curved blade and Stark sigil engraved in the hilt.

Rose lifts it out, brushing her finger across the steel. A lump forms in her throat; it had been Robb's gift to her, the day she left Riverrun. If she hadn't left, she'd have been slaughtered at that wedding with the rest of them. Feeling both guilty and relieved, she straps the blade to her calf, feeling the cold steel against her skin.

She's still alive. After everything that's happened, she is still alive. She won't take that for granted.

* * *

Rose makes her way down the hallway, in a dress of pale, pink silk that flows to her ankles and keeps the dagger against her leg well hidden. Her unruly golden hair is pulled backward into a neat, braided knot, with locks loose to frame her face.

As she rounds the corner, heading towards the gardens, a voice calls out from behind her. "Lady Rose."

Spinning around, she forces a smile when she spots Tyrion approaching her, followed by a horde of men from the City Watch carrying the Lannister banners. Bronn stands at his side, along with his new squire, Podrick. She bows her head. "Lord Tyrion."

He stops directly in front of her. "You look . . . well." Guilt is etched all over his scarred face.

"I feel well," Rose lies. "Are you going somewhere?"

"I've been asked to greet Prince Doran Martell and his entourage outside the city walls," he says, tiredly. "They should be arriving shortly." He studies her fidgeting hands, her pensive expression. "If you're not too busy, perhaps you'd like to accompany us?"

Rose laughs, nervously. "I'm not sure Lord Tywin would like that."

"My father is busying himself doting on my big brother." Tyrion grins, wryly. "I imagine you're the least of his concerns just now."

Rose chews on her bottom lip. It has been a long time since she's been outside the castle walls — even when she had, she was on a dangerous mission to save the lives of her little brothers. Besides, as much as she adores Sansa, she could use a small escape from all the tears and bereavement. It would serve as a small distraction.

Timidly, she nods her head. Tyrion smiles, warmly, and extends his arm for her to take.

* * *

They wait for what feels like hours.

The sun is boiling today, the only shelter being the lining of trees that run along either side of the road. People pass them by, nudging one another, pointing at them, at their fancy clothing and Lannister banners. Rose paces, drawing patterns on the dirt ground with the tip of her shoe, trying to ignore the flushing of her skin.

Bronn slumps down on a tree stump, looking equally bored. He swings his flask of ale back and forth, occasionally taking a swig. "How many Dornishmen does it take to fuck a goat?"

"Please, don't," Tyrion grumbles.

"Seems to me the smart place to meet travellers is in a tavern," Bronn muses. "That way, if one party's late, the other party can drink some ale inside."

Rose crosses over to him and holds out her hand. He looks at her, surprised, but gives her the flask. She takes a large swig of it, trying not to splutter at the burning taste. It's not nearly as good as wine. Mouthing her thanks, she hands it back to him.

"This is the Prince of Dorne we're waiting for, not one of your sellsword friends."

"If he's so damned important, how come they sent you to meet him?" Bronn asks.

Tyrion squirms, uncomfortably where he stands. "There's bad blood between the Martells of Dorne and the Lannisters of Casterly Rock," he confesses, worriedly. "Has been for years."

Rose frowns. "So, if the Martells of Dorne are looking to spill some Lannister blood, better you than your siblings?"

Tyrion tilts his head to look at her. "No need for cynicism. I happen to be an accomplished diplomat. Ah! Here we are."

Rose peers out, along the dirt road. Right at the bottom, making their way up the hill is a parade of foreign men, dressed in their bright clothing; yellows, oranges and reds, like the sun. Tyrion claps his hands, alerting the men of the City Watch standing behind them.

"Can you read the sigils?" he asks.

Bronn leans forward, squinting. "Yellow balls?"

"Wild lemons on a purple field, House Dalt of Lemonwood," Podrick murmurs. At his side, Bronn pushes himself to his feet, staring at him in wonder. "A vulture grasping a baby in its talons, House Blackmont. A crowned skull, the Manwoodys of Kingsgrave."

Tyrion looks impressed. "Boy knows his Dornish Houses."

"I need a sigil," Bronn mutters.

The Dornishmen pick up their pace, their horses galloping, steadily across the road, leaving clouds of dust in their wake. "House Martell is — it's a red sun pierced by a spear," Rose says, searching the banners. "Can you see it?"

"No, I cannot," Tyrion sighs, frustrated. He steps forward, just as the horses come to a halt in front of them. The faces of two foreign men look back down at him with scorn. "Well met, my lords. His Grace, King Joffrey, welcomes you in his name. My lord father, the King's Hand, sends his greetings as well. I am Tyrion Lannister of Casterly Rock, Master of Coin."

No reply is made, their faces getting stonier by the second.

Tyrion pauses, unsettled. "Forgive me. I don't see Prince Doran in your company."

"The prince's health forces him to remain at Sunspear," says one of the riders, with a small grin. "He sends his brother, Prince Oberyn, to attend the royal wedding in his stead."

Tyrion's polite smile droops like he's struggling to remain composed. "Yes, the King will be delighted to enjoy the company of a warrior as renowned as Prince Oberyn at his wedding feast."

"Will he?" the rider sneers.

 _Oberyn Martell_. Rose searches her mind, trying to reason why that name sounds so familiar. Then, she remembers. His sister, Elia, had been married to Rhaegar Targaryen, but he'd been unfaithful to her and stolen away another woman — Rose's aunt, Lyanna. She swallows, trying to suss out whether this makes her an enemy to House Martell. It shouldn't do; the Starks have committed no crimes against them. Then again, she'd thought the same of the Lannisters.

"And, where is Prince Oberyn?"

"Arrived before dawn. Not a man for welcome parties, our prince."

"Very well." Tyrion nods, still rigid. "My lords, these fine men from the City Watch will escort you to your quarters in the Red Keep." He staggers out of the way when the riders gallop past him, heading towards the bannermen. "You must be weary after such a long journey."

Rose folds her arms over her stomach, following Tyrion as he heads back towards their horses.

"Some accomplished diplomacy that was," Bronn teases. "Now where?"

"We must find Prince Oberyn before he kills somebody. Or, _several_ somebodies."

"How d'you plan on finding a single Dornishmen in a city this big?"

Tyrion shrugs. "You're famous for fucking half of Westeros. You just arrived at the capital after two weeks of bad road, where would you go?"

"I'd probably go to sleep," Bronn confesses. "But, I'm getting old."

Podrick hands the Lannister banner over to a man of the City Watch. Tyrion stops directly between the lining of horses. Rose moves to stand in front of him. "Littlefinger's brothel, in Street of Silk. You're heading there now?"

"I am, indeed." Tyrion begins adjusting the saddle on his horse. "I'll make it back in time for lunch. Your sister must miss me," he adds, wryly.

"And me?" Rose asks. She lifts her chin. "I'd like to come with you."

Tyrion freezes, turning his head to look at her. "A lady in a brother is not —"

"You're hardly the one to lecture me on what's proper and what's not," she points out, colder than she intended. He doesn't look offended, though. She sucks in a breath, calming herself. "Allow me this slight distraction before I'm forced to remember I'm still a prisoner in this damned city," she pleads.

Tyrion groans, conflicted. He looks over his shoulder to Bronn, who gives him a small nod. "Anyone lays a finger on her, I'll flay their pecker," he promises, smirking.

"A reassuring statement." Tyrion gazes up at Rose's hopeful face, sighing. "Alright, alright. On your own head be it."

Rose is too happy, as she mounts her horse, to feel upset about his choice of wording.

* * *

The expensively furnished brothel is near-empty in the early hours of the morning. For a split second, Rose is devastated; the last time she was here, she was with Alastair, pleading Littlefinger for his help. And now, he was dead too. Like her mother, and her brother. And her father. The memories come pouring back through her, but she pushes against them.

Bronn keeps closely at her side as they walk up the staircase, his hand on the hilt of his sword. A sudden agonised scream from upstairs causes all of them to halt in their tracks. Alarmed, Tyrion stares at them over his shoulder, then quickens his pace up the stairs.

They reach the turret room and push past the silk curtains.

"Prince Oberyn, forgive the intrusion," Tyrion gushes. "We heard there might be—"

A man, with olive skin and a mess of dark hair, steps backward, drawing a sharp blade from the wrist of a Lannister soldier, pinned down on the table, as he does so. The soldier lets out a loud moan of pain, blood spurting out of the wound.

"—trouble," Tyrion finishes, in a mumble.

Rose feels nauseous as she watches the Lannister soldiers hurry out of the room, blood dripping along the floor as they go. The dark-haired man — Oberyn, it must be — places his blade, neatly back into a belt. The very beautiful woman standing near the window crosses over to him, cradling his face in her hands. "Apologies, my love," he says, softly. She says nothing, instead drawing him closer and enveloping his mouth with hers.

Tyrion frowns, uncomfortable. "I'm here to welcome you to the capital," he calls.

Oberyn ignores him, continuing to kiss the woman. Rose has to bite her lip to refrain from grinning. Finally, he pulls away, a wide smile on his handsome face. "Ellaria Sand, my paramour," he introduces. His accent is strange, but pleasant to the ears. He outstretches his arm towards Tyrion. "The King's own Uncle Imp. Tyrion, son of Tywin . . . _Lannister_." A hint of disdain fills his tone.

Tyrion bows his head. "If there's anything I can do to make your stay—"

"And what are you?" Oberyn interrupts, his focus swivelling to Bronn. "His hired killer?"

"It started that way, aye. Now, I'm a knight."

"How did that come to pass?"

Bronn shrugs. "Killed the right people, I suppose."

Oberyn barks a laugh. Finally, his eyes shift to Rose, looking her, up and down. "And this one has golden hair, but she is no Lannister," he notes. Slowly, he approaches them, his eyes never leaving hers. "What is your name, girl?"

Her thumps in her chest. "Rose Stark."

Oberyn lifts an eyebrow. "Ah, the Rose of Winterfell. Rumours do not do your beauty justice, little wolf." It's more of a statement than a compliment. Ellaria saunters over and wraps her arms around Oberyn's torso, nuzzling her head against his back. "We'll need a few more girls," he calls, to the male prostitute hovering at the door. "Girls, yes?"

Bronn nods. Tyrion shakes his head.

Oberyn looks mildly surprised. "You don't partake?"

"Oh, I par _took_ ," Tyrion mumbles. "Now, I'm married. Prince Oberyn, if I may, a word in private?"

Ellaria drops her arms from Oberyn's waist, crossing the room. Oberyn hesitates, but nods his head, then follows Tyrion out of the room. Rose sucks in a terse breath, looking to Bronn. _Now what?_

* * *

"I've four beautiful daughters, and four more acquired through Oberyn. Sand Snakes, they call themselves." Ellaria smiles, wistfully, taking a sip of her wine. "His eldest three, Obara, Nymeria, and Tyene are trained in combat. They could drive a spear through a target miles from where they stand."

Rose hums a laugh. "Nymeria. My little sister named her direwolf for her — the warrior queen who led the Rhoynar refugees to Dorne."

"The founder of my country," Ellaria muses. "Your sister has excellent taste." She studies the look on her face, then stretches out a hand and brushes it, tenderly down her cheek. "Your pretty eyes are so sad."

Rose smiles, dimly. "I miss her, is all."

"Is she dead?"

"No, just . . . gone." She drops her gaze, her eyes beginning to sting.

Ellaria shuffles on the bed, so she is lying on her front. Slowly, she traces the rim around her goblet. "You are a high-born, but unmarried."

"I am." Rose sighs. "Love has been rather unkind to me."

"Pretty women always have the worst fortune," Ellaria says, bitterly. "Men can be so blinded by beauty, they fail to fall in love with _this_." She places her warm hand over Rose's breast, making her jump from the sudden contact. "The heart. They use us, then toss us aside, because—"

"They think we're only good for one thing," Rose finishes. She flinches as she remembers how Joffrey had cornered her on the balcony after she'd returned to King's Landing, how those same words had spat out of his lips, too.

"Hmh." Ellaria's eyes flick over Rose's shoulder. "Not all of them."

Rose turns to see Prince Oberyn entering the room. He looks down at the two women, sprawled on the bed, with a mild look of surprise. Quickly, Rose straightens up into a sitting position. "Where's Lord Tyrion?"

"He's heading back to the castle." Oberyn crosses over to the table and pours himself a large goblet of wine. "Your knight friend is enjoying himself elsewhere."

Ellaria props herself up on her knees, shuffling so she's directly behind Rose. "It seems you have some time on your hands," she whispers. Then, she brushes her lips over the side of her neck, her warm breath tickling her skin.

Rose's blood begins to sing in her veins. Suddenly, she leaps upwards from the bed, staggering backward. "I shouldn't," she gasps.

"Ah." Oberyn chuckles. She spins around to see him standing, right in front of her. He smells like exotic spices and candlelight. "A noble-born lady needs her virtue like a scholar needs his mind."

"It's not that." Rose's cheeks begin to warm. "I fear the whole experience has been ruined for me," she confesses, in a small voice.

Oberyn blinks. "I see."

Rose meets his gaze. "Do you?" she asks, tersely.

He hesitates, exchanging a look with Ellaria. She merely smiles, and shuffles down towards the end of the bed, near the two red-haired women who are stripping one another of their clothes.

Oberyn takes Rose's shoulders in his hand, looking her, dead in the eye. "One man lays a hand on you against your will, but it should not destroy your need for pleasure. Do you understand what I am saying to you, little wolf?" His voice is commanding, and she finds herself nodding.

Steadily, he turns her around, so her back is pressed against his front. "Imagine the first time you make love after such a horrific affair," he whispers, his breath in her ear. Her eyes drift shut as his hands run down the front of her body. Her nipples harden as his palms smooth over her breasts, with such tenderness. "Imagine how empowering it will feel . . . how liberating . . . how overwhelming. This body is yours. It can never be stolen from you. Use it to do as you please."

Oberyn's fingers find the wrap of her dress, beginning to ease it open. Quickly, she comes to her senses. With a gasp, she grabs his hands and pulls them away. "I, uh . . ." she stammers, spinning around to face him. "Thank you, but . . ."

He peers down at her, then smiles. "I understand. Not yet. But, someday, you shall."

Rose nods, jerkily. Her cheeks warming, she wraps her arms around her stomach and scurries out of the room.

* * *

Rose walks back to her chambers in a considerably brighter mood. Her mind still reels with the events of the afternoon; how Oberyn had spoken confidence back into her, how he'd touched her, and she hadn't felt the urge to pull away — at least, not for the purpose of her assault. She had been so certain it was all ruined for her, to have a man inside of her, but . . . Oberyn was right. It should feel empowering. It _will_ feel empowering.

Not to mention, the fact that she'd turned down a Dornish prince made her giggle.

When Rose opens the door, she's not surprised to see Sansa in there. Her amber hair is pinned away from her face, and she's wearing a deep, purple gown, far more modest than her own. "Where've you been?" she gasps.

"I was — um, strolling the gardens," Rose lies, feeling sheepish. She closes the door behind her. "I looked for you. Lord Tyrion said you were in the Godswood."

"I was." Sansa smiles, brightly. "I ran into Ser Dontos."

Rose frowns. "The fool?"

Sansa nods. "He gave me this." Her hands clasp around her necklace, fingering the series of blue sapphires that hang from the silver. "Isn't it beautiful?"

"It's lovely," Rose mumbles. "Why would he give this to you?"

"He owes me his life, he said. It'll go perfectly with my dress for the wedding."

 _The royal wedding_. Rose had almost forgotten; it was mere days away. She watches as Sansa makes her way over to the mirror, unclasping the necklace and putting it, neatly in the jewellery box. "You seem like you're in a good mood," she notes.

Sansa takes a deep breath. "I am." She spins around suddenly. "Rose?"

"What is it?"

Without warning, she crosses the room towards Rose and wraps her arms around her, pulling her close. "You'd be dead if you hadn't left Riverrun," she mumbles, into her shoulder. "I'd . . . I'd be here, all alone. You're the only reminder I have that it was all real. That we were in Winterfell, and we were so happy. If you died, all of that would disappear." Her voice fills with tears. "You're my best friend."

Rose smiles, hugging her back. "That's good. As it turns out, I'm not easy to get rid of."

* * *

 **A/N:** How is everyone liking Season 8? I'd love to hear your thoughts, now that the Battle of Winterfell is done and dusted!

Did you feel like the whole Night King threat was eliminated too quickly? Or, are you more interested in the battle for the Iron Throne? Any moments that made you laugh or cry (e.g. Theon and Jorah dying like freaking heroes)? How did you feel about Arya being the one to deliver the killing blow? And, obviously, I'd love to hear your predictions for the final three episodes!

 **Quick note about this fanfic** : Rose's story takes some very deliberate turns this season, as I'm sure you expect! She'll make good choices and bad choices, but it will all be in the name of keeping her family safe (as per usual). Keep leaving reviews and letting me know what you're thinking/how you're feeling about her journey. I'm always open to suggestions!


	32. The Lion and the Rose

**A/N** : the purple wedding . . . oh, my.

* * *

 **The Lion and the Rose**

"Bastards are born of passion, aren't they?"

* * *

"From House Tyrell and the people of the Reach, Your Grace, it is my honour to present you with this wedding cup."

Lord Tyrell sets down the golden chalice at the front of the table. From where she sits, Rose can see that each face bears the sigil of every great house; on one of them, she can spot a pearl direwolf, glinting in the sunlight. Inexplicably, she thinks of her own direwolf, Hope. How she'd sent her away with her brothers to keep them safe. Her silky fur, golden as her own hair, and big blue eyes. She swallows back the lump in her throat.

"May you and my daughter Margaery drink deep and live long."

Joffrey nods, smiling. "A handsome goblet, My Lord. Or, shall I call you 'father'?"

Lord Tyrell beams. "I shall be honoured, Your Grace." He bows, deeply, and heads back to his seat.

At that moment, Shae crosses to the table and sets down platters of food, in front of the two sisters. Rose stares down at her plate but finds herself unable to eat a single bite. Instead, she sips at her wine, her mind vaguely registering how dependent she's become on it.

It helps her forget the nightmares, but no amount will help her forget the people she's lost. Her father, her mother, her brother. Sitting here, with the Lannisters, with _Joffrey_ , only serves as a deeper reminder. Sparing a glance at Sansa, she can tell she'd rather be anywhere else, too.

Podrick rounds the table and places a book, bound in leather and elaborately illustrated, down in front of the King. As he bows and steps aside, Tyrion moves to stand in front of his nephew. "A book?" Joffrey asks.

" _The Lives of Four Kings_ ," Tyrion announces, stiffly. "Grand Maester Kaeth's history of the reigns of Daeron the Young Dragon, Baelor the Blessed, Aegon the Unworthy, and Daeron the Good. A book every king should read."

Rose tilts her head, trying to measure Joffrey's reaction. He squirms, uncomfortably in his chair, clearly thinking over his next words. A glance to Tywin and Cersei, who sit at his side, forces a smile onto his face. "Now that the war is won, we should all find time for wisdom," he says, steadily. "Thank you, Uncle."

Tyrion's eyes narrow, warily. But, he says nothing, bowing his head and going back to his seat.

Next, a knight approaches the table, carrying a sheathed sword in his hands. Lord Tywin pushes himself to his feet. "One of only two Valyrian steel swords in the capital, Your Grace," he declares, as it is set down in front of him. "Freshly forged in your honour."

Rose's hand tightens around her goblet. Her father's blade, the greatsword, the heirloom of their House, had been made of Valyrian steel. Ice, it was called. She watches as Joffrey gets up, excited from his seat, and hurries around the table. He wastes no time yanking it out of the sheath, brandishing it, wildly. Rose looks at the blade, eyes like glass, and feels sick.

That is her father's blade. Melted down, re-forged.

"Careful, Your Grace," Maester Pycelle chuckles. "Nothing cuts like Valyrian steel."

"So, they say." Joffrey grins, balancing the sword in his hand.

Without warning, he raises and slams it, right down the middle of Tyrion's book. The pages go flying everywhere, drifting in the summer breeze. The breakfast table flinches backward with each clumsy swing. The entire grounds fill with uncomfortable silence. Joffrey's gaze flits over to Tyrion, a sneer on his pinched face.

"Such a great sword should have a name." Joffrey turns to face the crowd. "What shall I call her?"

"Stormbringer!"

"Terminus!"

"Widow's Wail!"

"Wolfsbane!"

"Widow's Wail," Joffrey echoes, softy. "I like that." He spins back around, admiring the blade one last time, before slipping it back into the sheath. "Every time I use it, it'll be like cutting off Ned Stark's head all over again."

Rose bites down on her lip. That same, inhuman rage simmers in her belly. Instinctively, as Joffrey rounds the table to take his seat, her hand closes around her breakfast knife. Quickly, Sansa places a hand over hers, pressing it down against the table. Rose turns to stare at her. She can see, over her shoulder, all eyes at the table are on them.

Sansa's eyes lock with hers, pleading. With a small sigh, she lifts her hand and pushes her full wine goblet over to Rose. Needing it, Rose smiles her thanks and takes a large swig from the cup.

It's going to be a very, very long day.

* * *

The bells ring out in the square, booming through the Great Sept.

Rose turns to see Margaery walking down the wide aisle, on her father's arm. She leaves everyone in the room breathless — her dress appears ivory, but the closer Rose looks, she can see the sky blue undertones, embroidered with silver. The train is a spill of white roses, the back open, the shoulders framed in intricate, soft petals. And the thorns curling around her look subtly dangerous. Her wealth of brown curls is pinned upwards in an elaborate updo, away from her face.

She smiles brightly when she reaches the front, her arm draping over Joffrey's. He's dressed all in crimson and gold, looking more kingly than ever. Together, a lion and a rose, they ascend the steps towards the Septon.

Rose spares a glance at Sansa, who looks on with a grimace. Not quite relieved, not quite envious. Over her shoulder, she can see Prince Oberyn, standing next to Ellaria. He grins when he spots her looking, and gives her a small wink. Blushing, she spins back around to face the front.

When the Septon finishes his declarations, Joffrey takes Margaery's hand and turns to look out the crowd. "With this kiss, I pledge my love," he declares. With a smugness about him, he takes her face in his hands and draws her close, pressing his lips against hers.

Though Rose feels sick to her stomach, she politely claps along with the rest of the crowd.

"We have a new queen," Sansa grumbles.

"Better her than you," Tyrion murmurs, and Rose nods in silent agreement.

* * *

Rose and Sansa try their best to stay out of everyone's way as the wedding feast roars on. Instead, they sit back in their chairs, talking exclusively to one another, watching the entertainment rage on from various corners of the grounds — drummers and pipers and fiddlers, trained dogs, sword swallowers, jugglers and dancers. As exciting as it all is, the flares of red and gold blur together under the influence of wine and the sticky heat.

In the late afternoon, a small, elderly woman dressed in blue comes tottering towards them. "You look exquisite, child," she says to Sansa. It is true; Sansa does look beautiful in her dress of deep purple, her amber hair twisted upwards into a Southern knot, embroidered with golden chains. "The wind has been at you, though."

Next to her, Rose is donning a garnet-red silk dress, which is fitted at her chest, and flares out in wisps around her legs. Her waist is cinched with a thick belt. Her wild hair is curled around her shoulders, with a single braid crowning across her head. Olenna turns to her, observes her, and smiles, widely. "I don't believe we've been properly introduced."

"Rose, this is Lady Olenna of House Tyrell," Sansa announces. "Margaery's grandmother."

Rose takes her spotted hand when she extends it and kisses it. "It's an honour to meet you."

"And you. I've heard many stories of the little Rose that bloomed in Winterfell. Far prettier than some that bloomed in Highgarden, myself included," Olenna adds, humourlessly. Rose nods, not knowing how to respond.

Olenna's hands go back to Sansa, smoothing out her hair, skimming over the sapphire necklace hanging over her chest. "I haven't had the opportunity to tell you how sorry I was to hear about your brother," she says, sincerely. "War is war, but killing a man at a wedding . . . horrid." She shakes her head. Kindly, she brushes a hand over Rose's cheek. "What sort of monster would do such a thing? As if men need more reasons to fear marriage."

Rose finds herself smiling in spite of herself.

Tyrion appears from somewhere within the swarm of guests, looking flustered. "My . . . ladies," he greets, awkwardly, moving to sit next to Sansa.

"Lord Tyrion. You see," Olenna grins, gesturing towards the celebration, "not as bad as all that." She turns back to Sansa. "Perhaps if your pauper husband were to sell his mule and his last pair of shoes, he might be able to afford to bring the two of you to Highgarden for a visit. Now that peace has come and all is right with the world, it would do you good to see some of it." She beams. "You must excuse me. It's time I ate some of this food I paid for." One last time, she cups Rose's cheek in her hand. "It was good to meet you, dear."

"And you," Rose says, truthfully.

As she shuffles off again, Rose picks up her wine goblet and leans back in her seat, inhaling the warm air. At the front of the podium, a group of musicians with their harps play a gentler melody; the Rains of Castamere. For a split second, Rose is filled with intense sadness, but she cannot put her finger on why. How beautiful the melody is, but how solemn it feels.

"Very good, very good," Joffrey sighs. "Off you go!"

He rises from his chair and tosses a handful of coins at the musicians. They scatter everywhere, cutting off the tune, making the guests jeer with laughter. Joffrey slumps down into his chair, looking pensive. The musicians gather up the coins and quickly leave the podium, scattering like rats.

The King shares a hushed conversation with his new wife, then rises to his feet again, tapping a fork against his goblet. "Everyone," he calls, and the guests fall silent, instantly. "The Queen would like to say a few words."

There's a ripple of soft applause as Margaery rises to her feet, smiling as brightly as ever. "We are so fortunate to enjoy this marvellous food and drink," she announces. "Not all among us are so lucky. To thank the gods for bringing the recent war to a just end, King Joffrey has decreed that the leftovers from our feast be given to the poorest in his city."

Again, there's a round of applause, and the musicians begin playing a lighter tune. Even Cersei gets to her feet, all smiles, and crosses the podium to kiss Margaery on either cheek.

Sansa squirms, uncomfortably in her seat. Rose prods her ribs, gently. "I'll fetch us some more lemon cakes," she whispers. At this, Sansa's face lights up. With a giggle, Rose rises to her feet and steps off the podium, carefully, so as not to trip over her dress.

She walks over to where the guests are seated, in long tables that stretch out to the gardens. It's not until she reaches the table filled with sweet dishes that she spots the one person she's been trying to avoid the most — Jaime Lannister, talking with Ser Loras.

Resisting the urge to sigh, she pretends she hasn't noticed them, even when Ser Loras smiles directly at her before walking away. She busies herself around the dessert table, searching for the lemon cakes.

She hears the armour clinking as he walks to her side. "Lady Rose," he greets, rigidly. "You look stunning. More beautiful than ever." The compliment sounds sincere, at least.

Rose forces a smile. "Thank you, Ser Jaime."

He clears his throat. "I was hoping we'd run into one another, as a matter of fact."

"Really?" She arches an eyebrow. "I was hoping we wouldn't."

She sneaks a glance at him. Jaime stares back at her, surprised at her hostility. Perhaps he'd expected her to be meeker, politer, like her sister. After an uncomfortable silence, he heaves a sigh. "Listen, I'm aware that my father has intentions for us to be wed, but—"

"You can stand there all you like and say that his schemes aren't resolute, but Lord Tywin does not make false promises," Rose says, angrily, looking him, dead in the eye, now. "He _will_ make you renounce your oath, and he _will_ make us marry. Even if he has to drag the both of us kicking and screaming to the altar himself." Jaime flinches, and her eyes narrow. "It's not exactly a dream come true for me either. Every time I look at a Lannister, regardless which one it is, it's as if my father is being executed all over again. I'll have to suffer that, with you, for the rest of my life." Hurt seeps into her tone.

Jaime frowns. He gazes down at her, and for a split second, she can see his eyes softening. "My Lady, I will do what I can to ensure that doesn't happen," he says, quietly.

Rose swallows, weakly. "Good luck trying." He opens his mouth to say something else, but she grabs the tray of lemon cakes and strides off before he can do so.

* * *

The afternoon drones on, with nothing for the Stark sisters to do except watch as the King tosses things from his chair at the entertainment, perhaps in an attempt to make them even more entertaining. Margaery sits at his side, forcing herself to laugh along, but looking exasperated each time he turns his head.

Eventually, after Joffrey has drained his third wine goblet, he rises to his feet and taps his fork against the glass. "Everyone, silence!" he bellows. The crowd falls into a hush. "Clear the floor," he orders. As the guests begin to take their seats again, he says, "There's been too much amusement here today. A royal wedding is not an amusement. A royal wedding is history. The time has come for all of us to contemplate our history."

Two servants stand on either side of the great lion's head monument, seated at the bottom of the podium. They turn the handles, lowering its jaw. A sweeping red carpet spills out of the mouth.

"My lords. My ladies. I give you, King Joffrey . . ." A man, a dwarf, rides out, mounting a play horse, dressed up as the King himself, screeching a mock battle cry. Four others follow him, each shouting, mounting their own horses. "Renly, Stannis, Robb Stark, Balon Greyjoy! The War of the Five Kings!"

The crowd explodes into applause. Rose does nothing. Her blood has run cold.

The dwarves circle one another, holding up their play swords, bowing dramatically to the clapping audience. Some even gallop through the tables, hitting various guests over the head with their clubs. "Let the war begin!" player Joffrey shouts, once they've all lined up atop the podium.

Rose clasps her hands in her lap, wringing them as players Renly and Stannis begin jabbing their swords at one another. Stannis rams his club against his behind, causing Renly to buck and cry out, the crowd roaring in laughter. Across the table, Ser Loras gets to his feet, chair scraping, and storms away.

When she turns back, player Robb has Balon on the ground, whacking at him with his sword. "I'm the King in the North!" he roars. He wears a wolf device on his head, almost like a helmet, but the irony is not lost on Rose. She won't be able to watch . . . she'll be sick, here, at this table . . .

Player Joffrey fires an arrow from his bow, and it strikes player Stannis, directly in the stomach. Strange, green strings spill out of his costume — wildfire, it's supposed to be. Again, the crowd claps, as player Stannis weeps like a child and scurries off the podium.

The battle continues, until only players Joffrey and Robb are left. They stand at opposite ends of the podium, jousting bats in hand. The crowd jeers along as they charge at one another . . . once . . . twice, missing each other . . . and a third time. Joffrey's bat hits Robb, squarely in the head, and knocks the wolf device from his shoulders.

Rose blinks, unseeing. Somewhere, in the midst of things, she can hear Joffrey's cackling.

But, her mind takes her back to Riverrun. To being reunited with her brother, to having him wrap her up in his arms, telling her how proud he is . . . how he wishes he didn't have to let her go . . . _Robb_. And the vicious things they did to him, sewing his direwolf's head to his body. Then, cutting her mother's throat, tossing her body in the river . . .

Something inside of her is snapping, she can feel it. She doesn't know what to do with it, and frantic tears begin to burn in her eyes.

Suddenly, a hand is placed over hers. Rose looks down, at Sansa's fingers interlacing with hers. She hasn't the strength to meet her gaze. She blinks once, and a single tear slips down her cheek. Quickly, she wipes at it, hoping no one can see.

Finally, the players are done. They bow, to the crowds, to the nobles seated at the table.

"Well fought, well fought," Joffrey chuckles, rising to his feet. As the ripples of cheers and applause die down, he takes a small, crimson bag from the table and holds it up. "Here you are. Champion's purse. Though, you're not the champion yet, are you? A true champion defeats all the challengers. Surely there are others out there who still dare to challenge my reign?" His focus swivels to the end of the table. "Uncle. How about you? I'm sure they have a spare costume."

Tyrion smiles, tersely. He pushes himself up from his chair. "One taste of combat was enough for me, Your Grace," he says, loudly. "I would like to keep what remains of my face. I think _you_ should fight him. This was but a poor imitation of your own bravery on the field of battle. I speak as a first-hand witness. Climb down from the high table with your new Valyrian sword and show everyone how a true king wins his throne. Be careful, though. This one is clearly mad with lust." He nods in the direction of player Joffrey. "It would be a tragedy for the King to lose his virtue hours before his wedding night."

There's a murmur of chuckles as Tyrion takes his seat again. Joffrey's entire posture stiffens. He stares back at his uncle, a murderous look on his face. Silently, he picks up his wine goblet and rounds the table towards Tyrion. Once he is standing, directly behind him, he tips the chalice over his head, allowing the wine to drench over Tyrion's hair, dripping into his eyes and soaking his tunic.

Tyrion dabs at his face and licks the droplets from his thumb. "A fine vintage," he muses, woodenly. "Shame that it spilled."

"It did not spill," Joffrey snarls.

"My love, come back to me," Margaery pleads, from across the podium. She outstretches her hand, her whimsical smile intact. "It's time for my father's toast."

The dwarf players turn on their heels, the mood considerably worsened, and head back inside the lion's mouth.

"Well, how does he expect me to toast without wine?" Joffrey asks. He ignores his wife's offered hand, instead stepping to the front of the podium. His face is bright red. "Uncle, you can be my cupbearer. Seeing as you're too cowardly to fight."

"Your Grace does me a great honour."

Joffrey glares. "It's not meant as an honour," he spits.

The canopy above flaps about in the breeze. The faces along the high table vary from anxiety to stoniness, to Cersei's amusement. Even Tyrion looks a little unnerved as he gets up from his seat, giving Sansa a kind smile, then trudges around the table towards his nephew.

Joffrey hands out the goblet then drops it on the ground. Tyrion stares up at him, coldly. Leaning down, he goes to pick it up, but Joffrey gives it a sharp kick. It disappears under the table with a noisy clatter. Rose feels the sudden urge to tear his piercing eyes from their sockets.

"Bring me my goblet," Joffrey orders.

Wordlessly, Tyrion bends down and searches under the table. Before Rose can stop her, Sansa has risen from her seat. She leans under the table, her hand closing around the chalice. Stretching over, she passes it to Tyrion, who takes it, gazing back at her with sheer gratefulness.

Again, he stalks over to Joffrey. "What good is an empty cup?" the King snaps. "Fill it."

His face growing steelier by the second, Tyrion picks up the flagon and pours half of it into the chalice. He sets it back onto the table with a thump, then hands the goblet over.

Joffrey looks down at him. "Kneel," he orders, quietly. "Kneel before your king." Slowly, Tyrion's eyes trail upwards to meet his. He remains utterly still. "Kneel," Joffrey says, again. Nothing. Shifting, angrily from foot to foot, Joffrey's voice raises to a shout, "I said . . . _kneel_!"

Rose's heart thumps in her chest. He's going to kill him. She can see it, in his face —

"Look, the pie!" Margaery's voice slices through the tension, and it instantly disappears. The crowd erupts into relieved cheers as a handful of cooks wheel the great pie, slowly down to the podium.

The King snatches his chalice from Tyrion and takes a large swig. Rose catches the stony look on his face as he heads back to the table, slumping down next to Sansa.

Joffrey draws his new blade from its sheath and balances it over the pie. Using both hands, he raises it and swings. The crust splits in two, and doves erupt from the centre, into the air, scattering in every direction. Joffrey staggers back, laughing, clutching onto his crown. The crowd roars in delight, rising to their feet to applaud.

"Wonderful," Margaery coos, clapping along with them. She places her gentle hands on Joffrey's shoulders as he saunters back over to her. "My hero." As the crowd takes their seats, two servant girls present the King and Queen with slices of the pie.

Sansa grips onto Rose's hand and leans in close to Tyrion. "Can we leave now?" she asks.

"Let's find out," he murmurs.

Sighing in relief, Rose rises to her feet, keeping her hand tight around Sansa's. Tyrion gets up too, moving to follow them down the steps, away from the high table.

"Uncle?"

Inwardly, Rose groans.

From the podium, Joffrey turns, his mouth full of pie. "Where are you going? You're my cupbearer, remember?"

"I thought I might change out of these wet clothes, Your Grace."

"No, no, no," Joffrey insists, shoving in another mouthful of pie. "No, you're perfect the way you are. Serve me my wine." Tyrion throws an exasperated smile at the sisters, then reluctantly crosses the podium to the front of the table. Joffrey watches him, intently. "Well, hurry up. This pie is dry."

Tyrion hands him the goblet. Joffrey shoves the plate of pie into Margaery's hands, grabs it and gulps, hungrily from the chalice. "Mm, good," he murmurs. "Needs washing down."

"If it please Your Grace, the ladies Rose and Sansa are very tired—"

"No," Joffrey snaps. His voice croaks and he clears his throat. "No, you'll wait here . . ." he trails off, to cough again, into his fist. When he opens his mouth to try and speak again, he's interrupted by another coughing fit, this time louder, unrelenting.

"Your Grace?" Tyrion calls, hesitantly.

Joffrey frowns, spluttering, and takes several large gulps of his wine. "It's nothing," he gasps. His hand goes to his neck, massaging the skin there.

And, suddenly, he cannot breathe.

"He's choking!" Margaery cries.

Cersei leaps to her feet, her chair falling back behind her.

"Help the poor boy!" Olenna shouts, her voice the loudest. The chalice slips from Joffrey's hand, the red wine spilling over the podium. He continues to claw, desperately at his neck, his entire face blooming scarlet. Olenna leaps to her feet. "Idiots, help your king!" she screeches.

Joffrey's splutters turn to high-pitched squeals for breath. His legs give way beneath him and he topples forward, onto his belly. A fountain of gushing liquid erupts from his mouth, staining the ground. The crowd shrieks in response, some rushing to find the nearest escape, others pushing their way forward to get a better view — among them is Ser Jaime, who charges towards the scene, his eyes wide in horror.

Rose realises her hand is still closed around Sansa's. Her eyes are fixated on what's happening, unable to look away. She feels nothing. A calmness, a sense of curiosity, maybe, as the King spasms on the ground, dry clacking sounds erupting from him as he tries to speak.

Cersei shoves past Margaery and flings herself to the ground, on her knees, beside her son. "Someone help him!" she is screaming, frantically. Together, Jaime and Cersei work to try and turn him over, onto his back.

Rose jumps when she feels a hand on her shoulder. "Come with me now." It's Ser Dontos. His voice is a frantic whisper in her ear. "If you want to live, we have to leave."

She glances at Sansa, who is still staring at the scene. Her mind reeling, Rose looks to where Cersei is cradling Joffrey's head in her lap. Blood drips from his mouth, his nose, his eyes, across his purple face, into his golden hair, his entire body twitching, uncontrollably.

Although she doesn't want to look away, although she wants to keep looking until the life leaves his eyes, Rose grabs Sansa about her waist. Dragging her at her side, she sprints after Ser Dontos, not once looking back at the dying monster that tore her family apart.

* * *

 **A/N:** Rose and Sansa fleeing the capital together! How do you think Rose will react to seeing Littlefinger again? Can she trust him? What do you think he has in store for the Stark sisters?


	33. Breaker of Chains

**Breaker of Chains**

"If they can't tempt you with honey, they'll choose something less sweet."

* * *

The bells chime as they race through the city. The blood thrums in her veins with each step she takes. As they bob and weave through the lining of houses, along the cobbled streets, Ser Dontos thrusts cloaks into their hands. Trembling, Rose fastens it around her shoulders and draws it up to hide her hair.

Faster and faster they run, their breathing laboured, her throat burning. He leads them out onto the shore, down the jagged rocks. Rose keeps ahold of Sansa, guiding her down, watching her movements in case she suddenly slips. The sky above them no longer glares but is covered with storm clouds, darkening the world around them.

Finally, they reach the ocean's edge, where a small rowing boat is tied to the rocks. Ser Dontos hops inside, staggering with his own weight. "Get in," he orders.

"Where are we going?" Sansa pants.

"Somewhere safe."

Sansa looks back at the looming buildings of the capital, her eyes shining. "Sansa, look at me." Rose takes her by the shoulders, spinning her around. "We're going to be fine," she promises, breathlessly. "But, we _have_ to leave." Sansa swallows, but nods. Rose takes her hand, interlacing their fingers. "Come on."

Picking up her dress, she steps, wobbling into the boat, then pulls Sansa in, too. The moment the girls take their seats, Ser Dontos pushes off from the rocky shore, and feverishly begins to row.

* * *

Deeper into the mist they go, until it submerges them from every angle, plunging them into darkness. Rose squints, drawing down her hood, trying to make out the odd shape she can see in the horizon. The mainsail and the rudder of a ship, it looks like. She scans the flags, trying to find a sigil, but there is none. Next to her, Sansa's teeth begin to chatter.

Ser Dontos stops rowing, reaching out to grasp onto the wooden ladder dangling from the ship's side. The boat stops moving beneath them, the waves lapping against the sides. He gets up and gestures to Sansa. "Up you go, My Lady." She straightens up, looking frightened. "You'll be fine," Dontos insists. "You're stronger than you know."

Sansa puts her hands on the ladder, but turns, frantically back to Rose. "I'm right behind you," she says. "I won't let you fall."

With a firm nod, she starts to pull herself up, unsteadily. Rose smiles, gratefully, at Ser Dontos, then begins to follow her up. The wood is old and splinters her fingers, but she's too anxious to notice.

Sansa lets out a gasp. Looking up, Rose sees someone has put their arms around her shoulders, yanking her up the final steps, over the ship's side. Quickening her pace, Rose reaches the top. But, she almost lets go when a familiar face peers over the edge.

"Lord Baelish," she gasps.

"Petyr." He outstretches his hands and grabs onto her arms, hauling her up. Stumbling a little, he pulls her onto the ship. The moment her feet hit the ground, she feels faint. "Are you hurt, my ladies?" he asks, looking back and forth between each sister. Sansa shakes her head, but Rose remains still, startled. "Good. Good. I'm sure you've had quite a fright. Rest easy. The worst is past."

"Lord Baelish," Ser Dontos calls. "I promised I'd get them to you safely."

"Softly, my friend." Littlefinger peers down at him. "Voices carry over water."

Dontos glances, anxiously around him. "I should get back before someone thinks to look for me."

"First, you'll want your pay. Ten thousand, was it?"

Dontos nods. "Ten thousand."

Littlefinger steps back and snaps his fingers. Four sailors cross the ship and direct their crossbows over the side. "Wait!" Dontos cries, but his words turn to a small grunt when the men fire their arrows, and they lodge themselves into his body.

Sansa screams. Her stomach turning, Rose grabs her and forces a hand over her mouth, pulling her backward, away from the ship. "Shush!" Littlefinger whispers, placing a soft hand on her back. "You don't want the Queen to hear, do you? A thousand gold cloaks are searching for you. And if they found you, how do you think they would punish the girls who murdered the King?"

"We didn't murder anyone," Rose hisses, venomously. She releases Sansa, who instantly lurches forward, leaning over the ship, to look down at the dead fool.

"I know, I know," Littlefinger insists. "But, you must admit, it looks suspicious. The king who executed your father, who tormented you for years, and you fled the scene of his murder."

Sansa's eyes fill with tears. "Why did you kill him?" she whispers.

"Because he was a drunk and a fool, and I don't trust drunk fools."

"He just risked his life to save us," Rose snaps, angrily, clenching her fists.

"To save you?" Littlefinger exclaims. He takes her by the shoulders, his blue eyes piercing hers through the darkness. "My Lady, he followed my orders. Every one of them. And he did it all for gold. Money buys a man's silence for a time. A bolt in the heart buys it forever."

Sansa looks up, still trembling. "He was helping us because I saved his life."

"Yes." Grimly, Littlefinger reaches around to unclasp the sapphire chain hanging over her chest. "And he gave you a priceless necklace that once belonged to his grandmother. The last legacy of House Hollard." He places it on the railing, then draws out a dagger and crushes one of the stones with its pommel. "I had it made a few weeks ago." Eyes gleaming, he looks to Sansa. "What did I once tell you about the capital?"

"We're all liars here," she says, in a small voice.

Rose stares at the crushed necklace with a frown. Littlefinger brushes it off the ship's surface, and she can hear it clattering to the rowing boat below. "Come, Sansa. Come, Lady Rose," he coos. Sansa clings to Rose's arm, holding her with trembling hands. Littlefinger walks them towards the cabin. "I know you've had a difficult day. But, you're safe now. I promise you that. You're safe with me, sailing home."

* * *

 **A/N:** Can you envisage Littlefinger and Rose getting along? Can you see them working as a team? Or, do you think Rose's lack of trust in him will become a problem?


	34. Oathkeeper

**Oathkeeper**

"A single day of freedom is worth more than a lifetime in chains."

* * *

Rose steadies herself, looking out the window at the waves crashing against the ship, moving them, unevenly across the water. Sansa remains rooted to her spot on the bed, staring at the floor. Although her skin is deathly pale, at the very least, she's stopped vomiting over the boat's side. Northerners certainly aren't made for the sea.

Littlefinger comes down the wooden staircase, beaming when he sees them.

"Where are we going?" Rose demands. "Where are you taking us?"

"I'm getting married to your Aunt Lysa," he says. "She's waiting for us at the Eyrie. You'll be safe there."

Rose nods, still wary. A hollow silence rings out, with no sound except the groaning of the ship as the waves continue to slam against it.

"Did you kill Joffrey?" Sansa asks, in a small voice.

Littlefinger grins, bemused. "Did _I_ kill Joffrey? I've been in the Vale for weeks."

Sansa's head snaps up. "We know it was you."

"And who helped me with this conspiracy?"

"Well, there was Ser Dontos. You used him to get us out of King's Landing, but you would never trust him to kill the King."

"Why not?"

"Because you're too smart to trust a drunk."

Littlefinger chuckles, crossing the room. "Then, perhaps it was your husband."

"No," Sansa says, instantly.

"How do you know?"

"I just do."

He peers at her, thinking. "You're right. He wasn't involved in Joffrey's death. But _you_ were."

Rose sighs. Her eyes dart from the window and she spins around to face him. "I'm sick of mind games, Lord Baelish," she says, balancing herself on the walls. "Tell us the truth."

Littlefinger looks at her, with a small smile twisting up the corners of his lips. Turning back to Sansa, he asks, "Do you remember that lovely necklace Dontos gave you? I don't suppose you noticed a stone was missing after the feast."

Sansa frowns, staring down at the floor. Her hand goes, instinctively to her neck. Rose looks back and forth between them, confused, then her eyes blow wide in realisation. "That's where you put the poison."

"I — I don't understand," Sansa stammers. "The Lannisters gave you wealth, power. Joffrey made you the Lord of Harrenhal."

"A man with no motive is a man no one suspects," Littlefinger explains, silkily. "Always keeps your foes confused. If they don't know who you are or what you want, they can't know what you plan to do next."

Rose's heart begins to slam against her ribs. _He gave that necklace to Sansa. He put her in danger, for the sake of . . . what?_

"And what if they caught you?" she demands, coldly. "You said it yourself. How would they punish the rat who murdered the King? They'd hack off your head and put it on a spike. Just like our father's. You would risk your own life just to confuse them?"

Littlefinger peers at her with a hint of delight. "So many men, they risk so little. They spend their lives avoiding danger. And then, they die." He steps closer to her, eyes blazing. "I'd risk everything to get what I want."

Rose stares back at him, searching his face, trying to understand.

"And what do you want?" Sansa asks, quietly.

Littlefinger doesn't move for a moment. His eyes remain trained on Rose, flitting over her face, the length of her hair. Then, he turns to Sansa with a warm smile. "Everything," he answers. "My friendship with the Lannisters was productive. But Joffrey, a vicious boy with a crown on his head, is not a reliable ally. And who could trust a friend like that?"

"Who could trust _you_?" Sansa retorts. Rose glances at her, bewildered at her sharp tone.

Littlefinger blinks, equally startled. "I don't want friends like me," he says, calmly. "My new friends are predictable. Very reasonable people. As for what happened to Joffrey, well, that was something my new friends wanted very badly. Nothing like a thoughtful gift to make a new friendship grow strong."

He looks back over to Rose. At the sour look on her face, Littlefinger's smile dims.

* * *

Rose leans against the wooden railing, staring out at the ocean. The mist has cleared, and now the sky is full of stars, clear against the swirls of blue and blackness. The ship no longer sways but keeps a steady course. She can feel the air getting colder around her, the further North they go.

 _North_. Homewards.

"Your sister is fast asleep."

She glances over her shoulder to see Littlefinger coming towards her. With a frown, she turns back to the vast spread of ocean. "Does it strike you as peculiar? A grown man watching a girl, not yet sixteen, as she sleeps?"

"I was merely checking in." Littlefinger leans against the railing, his back to the view. "She's had quite the scare."

Rose shrugs. "It wasn't all bad," she confesses. "Watching the man who murdered our father bite the dust." She thinks of him, twitching on the ground, blood and bile spilling across his face, eyes wide in fright. She hates how blithe she is, just thinking about it. "Granted, if it were up to me, I wouldn't have poisoned him," she murmurs. "I'd have killed him slower. Much, much slower."

Littlefinger searches her face, but she doesn't turn to look at him. "Starks are vengeful creatures," he muses. "Your brother, Robb, never asked for a crown. He was simply a boy trying to avenge his father—"

"Don't," Rose croaks. She closes her eyes, drawing in a soothing breath. "Don't speak of my brother as if you knew him."

"Forgive me," Littlefinger purrs. "I meant no offense." She looks at him. He peers back at her, watching the conflicting emotions cross her face — distrust, confusion, irritation, and something else. Relief, it is. "Have you worked it out, yet?" he asks. "How the vile of poison wended its way from necklace to goblet?"

Rose cannot help but grin. "Nothing like a thoughtful gift to make a new friendship . . . _grow strong_ ," she echoes his words from earlier, emphasising the nuance. Littlefinger's lips twist into a smile. Rose turns back to the waters. "I didn't know Margaery all that well. But, despite numerous warnings, she was willing to marry that beast if it meant she would be Queen. During the feast, her grandmother, Olenna, approached us. I remember seeing her hand grazing over the necklace. She must've taken out the vile of poison and put it in Joffrey's cup."

Littlefinger nods, wistfully. "What was her motivation to do such a terrible thing?"

Rose nibbles on her bottom lip. "She wanted to protect her granddaughter," she replies in a tiny voice. A shaky breath escapes her. "We shouldn't have left Tyrion there. They'll blame him. Cersei will blame him."

"He's a Lannister."

Rose chuckles, flatly. "I trust him far more than I trust you."

Her eyes flit to his. He looks back at her with displeasure. "I wish there were something I could do to alter your perception of me," he whispers in that silky-smooth voice. "I can assure you, My Lady, I've no intention of causing you harm."

Unable to help herself, Rose believes him. "It's not me that I'm worried about," she replies. Turning, she faces him, with a small scowl. "That necklace. You should have made sure it was given to me. To put my sister's life on the line—"

"You mistake me," Littlefinger cuts her off, quickly. "I couldn't be certain you'd be seated at the high table where Olenna would have easy access to you. Sansa is a Lannister. I knew precisely where she'd be. You must believe me, Rose." He looks at her, imploringly. Shifting, he moves to stand directly in front of her, stepping as close as he dares. "Last we spoke, the thought of my leaving upset you. Now, you don't trust me?"

She glares back at him, obstinate.

Cautiously, he puts his hands on her waist, drawing her close. "You trusted me to hold you," he whispers, his face closing in on hers. "To put my hands on you—"

Rose whips her dagger out from where she keeps it, strapped to her leg, and presses the blade against Littlefinger's neck, forcing him backward, against the railing. "You forget, I'm no longer a prisoner," she snarls, right in his startled face. "Sansa is the only family I have left. I would rather die than see her hurt, ever again. And I will kill anyone who tries. Including you, Lord Baelish."

He takes a moment to compose himself, swallowing with the weight of the cold steel against his throat. Then, his penetrating blue eyes draw upwards to meet hers. "I'd expect nothing less from you, my love," he rasps.

Rose's jaw clenches. She releases him and, still clasping the dagger, makes her way back into the cabin.

* * *

 **A/N:** Rose is certainly no longer a prisoner . . . or, is she? How do you think Joffrey's death and her new-found freedom will change her? Would we like to see a bit more of her vengeful streak in future?


	35. First of His Name

**First of His Name**

"Everywhere in the world, they hurt little girls."

* * *

Rose feels her heart skipping in anticipation as they walk across the narrow high road, closing in on the Bloody Gate. It's bigger than she expected, with twin watchtowers, joined by a covered bridge of grey stone that arches above the road. From where she stands, she can make out the defenders of the gate, standing above with crossbows in hand, watching them, intently as they approach.

"Pull up your hoods," Littlefinger whispers. Rose frowns, confused. "A memorable shade," he says, picking at the end of Sansa's braid.

"But, how would they know?" she asks.

"You know what kind of stories poor men enjoy the most? Ones about rich girls they'll never meet." His face twists into a grimace. "The Rose of Winterfell, with her long, golden hair. And her sister, Sansa, kissed by fire. Tales stretch far when you're born a beauty."

Rose shudders, and quickly yanks up her hood, tucking her untamed curls behind her shoulders. Sansa copies, disturbed. "Is this the only way into the Eyrie?" she asks, quieter now.

"The mountains are impassable. If you want to get to the Eyrie, you need to go through the Bloody Gate. It doesn't matter how large your army is, if you attack this gate, you do it on this road, three men abreast and get slaughtered like goats. The first Lords of the Vale didn't have much, but they had these mountains and they knew how to use them. And the fortress they built here has never been overcome. Not once in a thousand years." He sounds grim but impressed. "Know your strengths, use them wisely, and one man can be worth a thousand."

Finally, they reach the front of the gate. From every direction, arrows point at them, from men dressed in silver armour and blue cloaks. "Who would pass the Bloody Gate?"

"Lord Petyr Baelish," Littlefinger announces. "And his nieces, Merrin and Alayne."

The knight peers at them in turn. His eyes linger on the girls with a hint of suspicion, but nods, nonetheless. "Stand to," he bellows. The order is repeated up on the cliffs, each knight lowering their weapons. "Welcome back, Lord Baelish."

The gates clang as they open, winding upwards, towards the sky. Littlefinger outstretches his arm, gesturing for them to go first. Exchanging anxious glances, Rose and Sansa lift their dresses up, over their ankles, and step through.

* * *

The Eyrie is the complete opposite to Winterfell — the castle is made of fine, white stone, with barracks and stables carved directly into the mountain. They enter the High Hall, a long and austere room, with walls made of blue-veined white marble. At the very end of it, perched on a high podium, sits the throne of the Arryns, carved from weirwood.

Sitting there is a woman, with the blue eyes of a Tully, a pinched mouth and long, thick auburn hair that curls down to her waist. On her lap is a wisp of a boy, pale with brown hair and large, doe eyes that snap upwards when the door opens. "Uncle Petyr!" he cries. He leaps from the woman's lap and comes hurtling down the marble staircase.

"My Lord," Littlefinger greets, with a smile that seems forced. He staggers a little with the weight of the boy as he flings himself into his arms. Setting him down with a chuckle, he ruffles his hair, then draws something out from under his cloak. "I have brought you a gift." A crystal falcon, like the sigil for House Arryn. The boy takes it, his face lighting up, and gives Littlefinger another hug.

The woman on the throne rises to her feet, beaming. "Lord Baelish."

"My Lady."

"Look what Uncle Petyr brought me!" the boy yells.

"A beautiful gift for a beautiful boy." The woman descends the staircase. Now that she is on her feet, Rose can see how thin she really is, and the closer she gets, she can see the paleness of her pointed features.

Gathering herself, she puts on a smile. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Arryn," she says, dropping to a curtsey, Sansa mimicking at her side. "My name is Merrin, and this is—"

"Oh, do take down those hoods," Lady Arryn says, grinning. "Don't you think I know who you are? You think I'd let my intended leave the Eyrie on urgent business without knowing what that business was?" She reaches the bottom of the winding staircase, and crosses the hall towards them, as the two girls take down their hoods. "I let him go so he could bring you here to me." Stopping in front of them, she reaches over and cradles their faces in each of her gaunt hands. "My flesh and blood."

Rose sighs in relief when she pulls her and Sansa into her bony arms. She holds her breath, grimacing against the potent smell of sour milk. "It's wonderful to meet you, Aunt Lysa," Sansa whispers, sounding happier than ever.

Lysa quickly draws away. "You mustn't call me that in front of anyone else."

"Of course." Sansa nods, urgently. "I understand."

"No one can know you're here. It would put us in a very precarious position."

"We won't say a thing," Rose insists. "I promise."

"The Lannisters want to destroy us," Lysa says, with a sigh. "They've been trying for years. Now they know what it feels like."

The little boy steps forward, his head tilted, curiously. "Mummy said they killed your mother and they chopped off your brother's head."

Rose flinches, feeling the sting of his words. Sucking in a steady breath, she tries her hardest to keep her smile intact. "Yes, they did," she croaks. "And our father's."

"They killed my father, too, with poison," the boy says, plainly. He chuckles, suddenly. "I wanted to make the little Lannister baby man fly, but Mother said I couldn't."

Behind him, Lysa grins, amused.

"Make him fly?" Sansa repeats.

"Through the Moon Door." He skips to the centre of the hall, where a narrow, weirwood door stands between two slender pillars. Rose cannot understand how she hadn't spotted it before. The boy leans over the edge and tosses his crystal falcon through it. She can hear it whistling as it drops through the sky.

Lysa turns to Sansa, frowning. "And on top of everything else, they made you marry that filthy troll."

"They did," Sansa says, bitterly. "They made us both. Lord Tyrion didn't want to."

"I don't believe that for a moment," Lysa tuts, angrily. "Did he force himself on you?"

Sansa flashes Rose an anxious look, who appears equally lost for words. "No," she splutters, her cheeks turning pink. "We never—"

"Good. Robin," Lysa calls, looking to her son. "These are your cousins, Rose and Sansa. But you're not to call them that in front of anyone but Uncle Petyr and myself. Do you understand? Rose, Sansa, this is my son, Robin."

Rose smiles at the boy. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Robin."

"Robin, show the girls to their chambers," Lysa orders, gently. "Take the back stairs."

Looking disgruntled, Robin steps forward and takes each of the girls by the hand, beginning to drag them towards the door. Rose spares a glance at Littlefinger over her shoulder. "Go," he tells her, with a reassuring nod. "We'll speak soon."

Robin gives her hand a tug, and she staggers after him, out of the room, but not before she catches Lysa's face morphing from a gentle smile to a scowl.

* * *

 _She's alone, in Winterfell._

 _The air bites cold against her face, whipping her hair around her shoulders. The sky above her is dark, the clouds colourless, washing the life out of the castle. Snow is falling fast and thick onto her head, into her face, her eyes, her mouth. Winter . . . home . . . it should feel better than this._

 _Where is she? She can see the ramparts above her, the courtyard in front of her. She must be at the gates. Stepping through, tripping over the heaps of snow building at her feet, she hears the groaning sound of strained rope._

 _Slowly, she turns around. A scream erupts from her mouth, sending her to her knees._

 _Swinging, back and forth over the gates are their bodies — Father, and Mother, and Robb, in the middle. Their faces frozen, eyes and mouths wide open, blood dripping from their bodies into the snow . . ._

* * *

Rose opens her eyes and is plunged into darkness. Her face is buried in the pillow, streaked with tears. Rolling over, she finds herself gasping for breath, her throat raw from screaming. Those gasps turn into loud, gut-wrenching sobs as her body continues to tremble. It was a bad dream. Just another nightmare.

Quickly, she covers her mouth with her hand to quieten her weeping. The room is warm with the dying fireplace, the sheets sticking to her clammy legs. She sits up and yanks them off her. Drawing her legs up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them, she rests her chin on top of her knees and tries to take some calming breaths.

 _I'm starting to forget what a peaceful night's sleep feels like_ , she thinks, wryly.

* * *

"He's a child."

"He'll soon be Lord of the Eyrie."

"A child with a title, then." Rose rolls her eyes, holding out her chalice. With a small smirk, Littlefinger pours her another glass of wine. "It was mere months ago that I was promised to Jaime Lannister, and now you're telling me I'm to wed another," she snaps. "I am not some prize to be passed from one suitor to the next! And nor is Sansa, for that matter. Before you get any other clever idea." She slumps back in her chair, taking a sip as he pours his own glass. "Not to mention, Robin is my cousin. Aunt Lysa can't make me—"

"Let me talk to your Aunt Lysa." Littlefinger sits down opposite her, reclining.

Rose thinks, then sets her goblet down. "It's not that I don't understand my duty now," she says, softly. "I'm the eldest living Stark. Should my brothers never return, I'm the rightful heir to Winterfell. No matter the state it's in now. I know I'll have to marry someday, but it — it's not the right time," she finishes, with a small laugh.

"There is never a wrong time to secure an alliance," Littlefinger insists. "Marriage is, indeed the swiftest way to do so." He watches her squirm in her seat. Taking in a sharp breath, he leans forward, closer to her. "House Arryn commands a formidable military. 20,000 men, so they say. The North, on the other hand, has never been so vulnerable. Ripe for the taking. Roose Bolton betrayed your family at the Red Wedding. Now, he plans to return North, to enforce a joint rule with the Lannisters. But, would the Northmen be so willing to surrender to their forces, should the eldest surviving child of Ned and Catelyn Stark ride for Winterfell with the Knights of the Vale at her back? Who would they bow to? Roose Bolton and his bastard son, or House Stark's eldest trueborn daughter?"

Rose blinks, mulling this over. "How many men does House Bolton command?" she asks.

"Not as many as the Vale. I can promise you that."

Rose's eyes narrow. "You don't know," she murmurs, with a grin. Frustration flashes in his beady eyes, and she lets out an idle chuckle. "I thought you made it your business to know everything."

"Forgive me," Littlefinger says, dryly. "I've been rather occupied saving your life."

Rose's smile dims. He sees this. Gently, he places a hand on her thigh, and she feels a strange flickering sensation at his touch. Not liking it, she grasps his hand and looks him, dead in the eye. "I won't marry Robin," she says, fiercely. "We'll find another way."

Littlefinger considers this. "If you insist," he murmurs, sitting back in his seat, suppressing a grin.

 _What in Seven Hells is this man up to?_

* * *

 **A/N:** What do you think of Littlefinger's feelings for Rose? Does he love her, like he loved Catelyn? Or, are his feelings a little more complex than that?


	36. The Laws of Gods and Men

**The Laws of Gods and Men**

"Tis a big and beautiful world. Most of us live and die in the same corner where we were born and never get to see any of it. I don't want to be most of us."

* * *

When Rose enters Sansa's chambers, she finds her sitting on her bed, brow furrowed in concentration as she sews. Rose admires her handiwork. "That's pretty," she compliments, then frowns. "But, dark."

"It'll take me weeks to finish the stitching," Sansa sighs. Rose can see her fingers are scratched from where she's poked and prodded herself with the needle. Admittedly, she is a little out of practise, since most of their dresses in the South were made for them. "I've never done anything this elaborate before."

Rose spots another gown, not yet finished, splayed across the bed. "You're making one for me too?"

"Of course." Sansa smiles, brightly. "We're posing as Lord Baelish's nieces. I thought we'd best look the part."

Rose strokes the length of the dress and sits down on the bed. "That's very sweet of you, Sansa. But, please, don't exhaust yourself with it."

"There's nothing to do here except sew and read," she grumbles. "At least in King's Landing, there was—" she cuts herself off, instantly. Her eyes dart up to meet Rose's gaze, her cheeks turning pink.

Rose smiles, grimly. "I miss it, too," she confesses. "Parts of it. Not being a prisoner, of course, but the excitement of being in the capital. All the silk gowns, the knights in their painted armour." Instantly, she thinks of Ser Alastair, and an ache fills her chest. "How beautiful everything was. The warmth."

"The Eyrie is so chilly," Sansa complains, with a sigh. "In winter, this place will be a cold, white prison."

Rose's stomach twists into knots. She looks to her sister, with a small, anxious smile on her face. "It is truly coming, now," she says, quietly. "I can feel it."

Sansa cracks a grin. "Me too," she whispers.

* * *

Rose lies on her stomach on the bed, leafing through one of the books Littlefinger had stocked for her on the shelf. He'd been more than accommodating — bringing crates of lemons over from the capital so Sansa could enjoy her favourite treats, and frequently visiting the library to fetch Rose some decent reading material.

A knock on her door draws her out of her latest story. "Yes?"

The man himself pokes his head around the door, smiling when he sees her, reclining on the bed. "I hope I'm not disturbing," he says, softly. "Will you accompany me? There's something I'd like to show you. A gift."

Warily, Rose shuts her book. "Of course."

Getting to her feet, she smooths down her dress, and exits the room. Littlefinger guides her down the hallway with a hand on the small of her back.

"I've thought a lot about the things you've said since we've been reunited," he explains, keeping his tone gentle. "You understand your position in the North, but . . . beneath your bravado, you fear you won't be able to protect those you love against the coming storm. Or yourself." His gaze flits over her face, nodding at her anxious expression. "I know that. I have something which may ease your worries."

Littlefinger leads her up to the Moon Tower, to the chambers he shares with Lysa. Rose finds herself glancing around, uneasily searching for her aunt, but she's nowhere in sight. She hovers in the doorway, not daring to step through any further, wringing her hands in front of her.

Littlefinger has his back to her as he opens a wide, crimson case on the enormous bed. When he turns around, he's holding a glistening shortsword in his hands. The steel blade catches the sun and momentarily throws her off, but when he steps closer, Rose can admire it in easier detail. "It's—"

"Valyrian steel," he finishes, complacently. "Sharp enough to slice through skin. Small enough for good balance."

He holds it out to her, with an encouraging smile. Rose takes it, expecting it to be heavy, but he was right — the weight feels proper in her delicate hand. The hilt of it is engraved with a ruby direwolf, and when she looks closer, she can see the soft patterns of roses varnishing the blade. He must have had it made special for her.

"This is kind, Lord Baelish," she splutters. "But even if I wanted to use it—"

"I've arranged for you to train with the Master-at-Arms," he says, smoothly. "He'll teach you how to wield a blade better than you know how to read." His smile weakens at the sceptical look on her face. Tenderly, he runs his hand over her braid. "You're a free woman here, Rose. Free to do as you please. It's an offering you're more than welcome to reject. But, I fear that, one day, you'll be backed into a corner, with no means to protect yourself or those you love." Her heart does a funny skip in her chest. "You can try to survive on your mind, as I have done. Or, you can put the warrior's blood that runs through your veins to use." Littlefinger's lips twitch into a smile. "And every rose should be protected by thorns," he adds, running a finger along the steel.

Rose looks from him, to the sword, then back to him again. "Not long ago, I held a dagger to your throat," she recalls, bemused. "Now, you give me an even bigger blade? You must really, really trust me."

He nods, his brow knitting together. "In the hope that you'll return that trust someday."

Rose peers at him, searching his eyes. The two stare at one another for a long time, as though trying to read each other's thoughts. "Well," she chuckles, holding up her new blade. "This gets you closer."

Littlefinger's face flickers with delight. "All the best swords have names," he points out.

Rose stares down at the sword in her hand, at the blood-red direwolf, the roses painted in the Valyrian steel, Littlefinger's words echoing in her head. "Redthorn," she whispers, with a smile.

* * *

 **A/N:** Rose with her own thorn! To me, Rose is a blend of both "masculine" and "feminine" characteristics, like her aunt, Lyanna. When I started writing her character, I wanted her to have the core/backbone of a Stark, but a fully fleshed out personality of her own, which I hope I have achieved. She's sweet and kind, but I also love exploring her wild side. Hopefully putting a sword in her hand will allow me to do so in greater depth (and to bring out the warrior in her).

What do you think of Littlefinger's gift? Are the reasons obvious to you, why he would give her something so "unladylike"? Or, do you think it's a genuine token of his affections? Let me know!


	37. Mockingbird

**A/N:** contains violence.

* * *

 **Mockingbird**

"Nothing isn't better or worse than anything. Nothing is just nothing."

* * *

For the seventh time that day, Rose's sword clatters out of her hand, onto the stone floor. She sighs, breathless, and bends down to pick it up. When she rises again, Ser Gunther places the tip of his own wooden sword under her chin.

"Head up," he instructs. Stepping back, he readies himself. "Again."

Rose lunges at him, and their swords click together.

"Again," he orders. His own sword moves against her, forcing her to pivot, to strike from the other side.

"Again." Her feet dance beneath her, eyes sharp as she watches him move. His sword goes to hit at her, but she blocks it, the adrenaline kicking in.

"Again!" he shouts. Her feet move quicker, turning and pivoting as he strikes at her from all angles until she clashes his sword out of the way and tags him on the stomach. Gunther grins. "Good."

From the staircase, Littlefinger watches as Rose circles the Master-at-Arms, demonstrating a natural grace, her brow furrowed in concentration. He doesn't turn around when he feels his wife approaching his side.

"She's a fast learner," he muses, over the sounds of batting wood and feet squeaking against the hall's floor. "A skilled warrior, she'll make."

Lysa grimaces. "Is it proper? A high-born girl like herself sparring with knights?"

"Rose is a sweet girl, but she has a wild temper," Littlefinger explains, softly. "She's angry at the terrible things that happened to her family. Sometimes, the best way to deal with our anger is to lash out. To brawl it away."

In the hall, Ser Gunther and Rose orbit the sealed Moon Door, and he says something which makes her laugh, before charging at her once again. She staggers a little, taken aback, but quickly regains her footing and blocks his incessant blows.

"Such aggression," Lysa sighs, shaking her head. "She clearly didn't get that from my side of the family."

Littlefinger turns to face her. "Be gentle with her, my love."

"Why do you care for her?" Lysa hisses, rounding on him, her eyes blazing. "Her and her irritant sister. It's because she's pretty, isn't it? Prettier than me, with her golden hair and shapely body—"

Littlefinger takes her face in his hands and brushes his lips, softly against hers. Instantly, she slackens in his embrace and lets out a low moan into his mouth. When he draws away, he keeps a hold of her and looks her, squarely in the eye. "I only have eyes for you," he whispers. "I swear it."

Any indication that she was worried before vanishes. She tips her forehead against his, then turns on her heel and leaves the hall. Littlefinger's smile disappears the moment she's out of sight. He turns his attention back to Rose, who has stopped sparring to catch her breath. Looking up, she catches his eye with a short-winded smile.

* * *

"What is it?"

"Come _on_!"

Sansa gives her hand another tug, dragging her out of the hallway. Together, running and giggling, their skirts lifted over their ankles, they hurry into the courtyard. The cold swims around them, the air biting. But, Rose is left breathless at the view.

Outside, the snow falls in gentle drifts, the ground and trees already blanketed. She feels it against her face and ears. The sky is a clear white, the purest white Rose has ever seen. The sisters take a moment, staring upwards, admiring the clear sign of winter, each of them speechless. Rose feels tears stinging her eyes, half joyful, half filled with a tremendous sadness as she thinks of her father.

When she turns around, Sansa is on her knees in the snow, gathering it up with her gloved hands. Rose chuckles, bending down beside her to help. They spend a good hour forging a replication of Winterfell — the First Keep, the broken tower, the glass gardens, and anything else they can remember. Sansa begins carving out the doors with a small stone, a smile on her face.

A pair of footsteps trudges through the snow behind them. Turning their heads, Rose and Sansa spot their cousin approaching, curiously. "Hello, Robin," Sansa greets.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"We're building our home — Winterfell." Sansa frowns. "At least, I think we are."

Rose grins. "We haven't been back there in a very long time."

Robin crouches down next to them, admiring their work. "Why did you leave?"

"It's a bit of a long story," says Rose, with a laugh.

"I stay here in the Eyrie," Robin sighs. "Mother says it's dangerous on the roads and I have to keep myself safe, because I'm the Lord of the Vale, and the Lord of the Vale is a very important person."

Rose nods. "You are indeed."

"When will you go back?"

"Probably never," Sansa grumbles. Rose turns her head to see her staring at the snow building, pouting. "Our family doesn't live there anymore, and someone burned it down." At the quiver of her chin, Rose's heart breaks a little.

"Oh." Robin looks startled. He leans closer, squinting. "Does Winterfell have a Moon Door?"

Rose sighs, grateful for the change in subject. "No. It's not high up in the mountains, like here," she explains. "It's on the ground."

"That sounds dangerous," Robin explains, making the girls giggle. "How do you make people fly?"

Sansa shrugs. "We don't."

"What do you do with all the bad people, and the scary people, and the people you don't like?" he asks, frowning.

"We never did anything with them at all."

"Girls don't take part in executions," Rose explains. "Not where we come from, anyway."

Robin stares down at the snow building, thinking. "Well, I'm Lord of the Vale. When I grow up, I'll be able to fly anybody who bothers me. Or you, Rose," he cries, excitedly, making her jump at the sound of her name. "When we get married, you can tell me if you don't like somebody and then we can bring them back here, and whoosh!" He gestures, wildly with his arms. "Right through the Moon Door."

Rose lifts an eyebrow. "Sounds rather wonderful," she admits.

Sansa turns her head to grin at her, knowingly. _Imagine the look of horror on Cersei's face if she went flying through that door . . . or Tywin's . . . or Walder Frey's . . . or Roose Bolton's—_

"Let's put a Moon Door in your Winterfell."

"All right," Rose beams. "Where shall we put it?"

"It can go in here, in this big tower." Robin's stubby finger goes flying towards it.

"Careful—!" Sansa cries. Her face falls when the snow crumbles, collapsing it. She huffs, irritated, and straightens to her feet. "You've ruined it. Now, we're going to have to rebuild the whole thing."

"I didn't ruin it," Robin protests, leaping up.

"You did."

Rose gets up too, brushing the snow from her cloak. "Sansa, it's alright—"

"It was already ruined because it didn't have a Moon Door," Robin shouts. "I was _fixing_ it!"

"Knocking things down isn't fixing them," Sansa snaps. "It's ruining them."

"I didn't ruin it!"

"You're being stupid!"

"I didn't ruin it!" Robin roars.

Before Rose can stop him, he lifts his foot and stamps on the rest of the snow castle, crushing it beneath his boot. He kicks at it, screaming petulantly, like a toddler having a tantrum, until its nothing but crumbled snow. Sansa watches, outraged, then slaps Robin, hard across the face. Rose gasps, staring back and forth between them, speechless.

Robin straightens up, clutching his reddening cheek with tears in his eyes. Bawling loudly, he sprints away from the courtyard, back into the hallway. Sansa looks, frantically to Rose. Then, she sets off after him. "Robin, I'm sorry!" she cries.

Rose listens to the sounds of their retreating footsteps, still startled.

"Children," drawls a voice from behind her.

Spinning around, she sees Littlefinger descending the staircase into the courtyard. "She slapped him," she whispers, unable to resist a laugh.

"Yes," Littlefinger smirks. "I saw."

Rose chuckles again, feeling light-headed. "She probably shouldn't have done that."

"No. His mother should have, a long time ago." He reaches the bottom of the steps and crosses the snow blanket towards her. "Consider it a step in the right direction."

"Aunt Lysa won't be happy," Rose says, with a sigh.

"Let me worry about Aunt Lysa."

Rose chews on her bottom lip, looking down at the ruined snow castle. Her brow furrows as she considers the irony of her broken home, crumbled on the ground at her feet. Suddenly, she's sad, again.

"The last time I was in Winterfell, I was a hostage," she says, quietly. "I was beaten and tormented in my own childhood home, by a man I thought I could trust. In truth, I was relieved when we left. A part of me never wanted to set foot in the castle again, afraid all those horrid memories would come rushing back."

She looks up to see Littlefinger watching her, intently. "Now, every time I close my eyes, I have this picture in my head," she mutters, frowning. "Of my family, what's left of it, back in our home, where we belong. Ruling the North like Father would want us to." She wrings her hands in front of her. "It was Robb's dream first. Now, it's mine."

Littlefinger pauses, then moves closer to her. "People tend to find peace in familiar places." He stops at her side, and she turns to face him. "I keep telling you, my love, you have the power to reclaim your home. You and Sansa, both. Perhaps if we worked together—"

"Why did you kill Joffrey?" Rose asks, plainly. "Tell me the truth."

Littlefinger stares at her, not moving, not answering for a while. She sees the thoughts flashing about in his eyes, wishing that she could read them. "I loved your mother more than you could ever know," he says, softly. "Given the opportunity, what do we do to those who've hurt the ones we love?"

Rose feels the weight of his words against her chest, making her heart thump, unsteadily. A small smile crosses her lips; she can't help it. Littlefinger sees this and seems to take it as a reason to step closer to her, so their faces are aligned.

"In a better world, one where love could overcome strength and duty, you might have been my child," he whispers. "But, we don't live in that world." His fingers curl around the end of her braid, stroking it with the pad of his thumb. "You're more beautiful than she ever was."

Again, she feels her heart racing. "Lord Baelish, I don't—"

"Call me Petyr." His hands go to her face, pulling it towards him.

Before she can stop it, his lips are on hers. At first, it feels wrong. Very wrong. Until, she finds herself sinking into him, his hands sliding around to cradle her neck, hers falling on his shoulders. It isn't the same as the last time they kissed; filled with fire and urgency. This is softer, more comforting and innocent. It makes it easier to pull away.

Firmly, she presses against his shoulders. His lips leave hers, his face disappointed as it draws back. She fixes him with a fierce look. "I will put my trust in you," she says, rasping a little. "I will do what you ask of me. As long as you promise to help my sister and I take our home back."

Littlefinger nods, without hesitation. "My life and loyalty are yours, My Lady," he says, cradling her face in his hands. "From this day, until my last."

A surge of relief floods through Rose's chest. For a split second, she's tempted to lean in and kiss him again. Until she hears a scream from inside.

Her sister's scream.

Without thinking, she lets Littlefinger go and sprints into the hallway. She can hear him calling her name, his footsteps marching after her, but she doesn't stop. The closer she gets to the hall, the more distinctive the voices become — she can hear Lysa shrieking, her voice ringing through the Eyrie, shouting obscenities.

Rose reaches the open doors of the High Hall and lets out a frantic cry. Lysa has her sister by the hair, forcing her to bend over the Moon Door, shaking her, violently. "Look down!" she's screaming. "Look down! Look down! Look down!"

Quickly, Rose whips her dagger out from under her dress, clenching the hilt. _I will slit her throat. I could do it. I'll kill her if she dares—_

"Lysa!" Littlefinger shouts. Rose didn't hear him reach her side. From across the room, her aunt turns her head, eyes wide and wild. "Let her go," Littlefinger orders, calmly.

She stares back at them, her face contorting. "You want her?" she asks, furious tears filling her eyes. "This empty-headed child? And her whore sister!" she screams, suddenly, her gaze darting to Rose. Sobs begin to rack her body. "I saw you both! I know what you did."

"Let her go," Littlefinger repeats.

"Just like their mother, the both of them," Lysa wails. "They'll never love you. I lied for you! I killed for you!" Tears stream down her cheeks, falling from her chin, onto Sansa. "Why did you bring them here?" she screeches. "Why?"

"I'll send them away," Littlefinger insists, smoothly. "I swear on my life. I swear to all the gods. Let her go, Lysa."

Lysa's grip tightens onto Sansa, who continues to sniffle and whimper. Then, she gives her a sharp push, away from the edge, and Sansa falls to the stone floor.

Rose's legs move forward on their own accord — she races to her sister's side, getting on her knees beside her. Sansa lets out a relieved gasp, clutching onto her, desperately. Rose can feel her trembling as she holds her close to her chest.

Lysa collapses onto the stone edge of the Moon Door, wailing loudly into her hand. Rose stares at her, wondering why she feels no remorse. Wondering why she still has the image in her mind of slitting her throat, right then and there. The picture of her, holding her sister over that door, clouds her judgement. Getting to her feet, she takes a small step towards her, dagger in hand.

Instantly, Littlefinger grabs her wrist, drawing her back. He fixes her with a steely look. Rose stares back at him, teeth gritted, shaking with rage. _If you don't kill her, I will_ , is what she says, with nothing but her eyes. And, she means it. The tears flow quickly down her cheeks, but she can hardly feel their wetness. The inhuman rage bubbling inside strips her of any compassion.

Littlefinger studies her, curiously. A loud sob from Lysa draws him back to the present. With a small sigh, he releases Rose and approaches her.

"Oh, my sweet wife," he coos. He kneels in front of her, taking her in his arms. "My sweet, silly wife." Drawing her close to him, she continues to weep into his shoulder. Slowly, he steadies her to her feet. "I have only loved one woman . . . only one, my entire life," he whispers, gently. "Your sister."

With that, he gives her a short, sharp push. Lysa stumbles backward, her feet slipping on the marble floor, and disappears through the Moon Door with a blood-curdling scream.

* * *

 **A/N:** I won't lie, Lysa's death was waaaay too much fun to write! Knowing what Littlefinger is capable of now, do you think Rose's approach to him will change? How will she cope with the hearing in the next episode?

 **Quick note** : Sansa is one of my favourite characters in the series, and she goes through such an enormous growth around this time. I don't want to take too many of her important moments away from her just to make Rose seem like a more badass/powerful character. Sansa's growing up quick, and it's important that that comes across, just as much as Rose's development.


	38. The Mountain and the Viper

**The Mountain and the Viper**

"Today is not the day I die."

* * *

Rose paces her chambers, chewing on her bottom lip. Every now and then, she'll hear footsteps passing them in the hallway. Sansa leaps up from the bed each time, waiting for the door to open, but it never does. For the third time, she slumps back down on the bed, her hands wringing in her lap. "They'll call us in soon, to testify."

"Lord Baelish did nothing wrong," Rose murmurs. "He saved you from Aunt Lysa."

Sansa looks up. "Do you trust him?" she asks, in a small voice.

Rose sighs and sits down on the bed next to her. "I trust that he'll do his best to protect us," she replies, nervously. "Only . . . I've spent the past few months trying to understand his motivations, and I can't make any sense of them. Either he truly cares for us, or he's just using us."

"Using us for what?" Sansa asks, bewildered.

Rose stares at her. What could he be using them for? He poisoned Joffrey, then kept his reasoning hidden behind riddles and false logic. Only days ago, did he confess the truth that justified his crime — that he loved their mother. That he wanted revenge. That, perhaps, he loves Rose, too. And then, he'd killed Aunt Lysa. Was it because she tried to push Sansa through the Moon Door? Or, was it simply to rid himself of her?

And the horrible thought in Rose's head refuses to disappear. That he killed their aunt because he has fallen in love with another. A woman who has implied she would marry him, should she be backed into a corner. A woman who shares the blood of someone he once loved, deeply. A high-born woman with a title that would grant him lordship over the North.

A woman like Rose.

Sucking in a breath, she shuffles closer to her sister. "Sansa, Littlefinger is a cunning man, but if we're on his side, he won't plot against us," she whispers. "He'll keep us safe. He'll help us get our home back."

Sansa blinks. "You want to go back to Winterfell."

"Don't you?"

Sansa considers this, her eyes glistening over. "More than anything," she croaks.

Rose gives her hand a soft squeeze, then gets to her feet, beginning to pace again. "If they find him guilty, they'll throw him through the Moon Door," she thinks, aloud. Frustrated tears spring to her eyes. "Then, we'll have no one."

"Unless . . ." Sansa trails off, contemplating. Rose folds her arms over her stomach, turning and waiting for her to evaluate her thoughts. After some time, Sansa looks up, determination replacing the fear on her face. "I have an idea."

* * *

The doors swing open. Rose instantly catches his eye from where he sits, across the room, his hands folded in his lap, an unreadable expression on his face. Bracing herself, she steps in, Sansa following close behind her. Her throat constricts when she sees Yohn Royce, the Lord of Runestone, sitting alongside Lady Waynwood and a surly-looking knight, whose name she cannot recall.

Rose turns her back to Littlefinger, unable to look him in the eye, and faces the small council. "Come closer, dears," says Lady Waynwood, gently. "You have nothing to fear from us. Or him," she adds, giving Littlefinger a stern leer. Rose complies, stepping closer, Sansa mimicking the action at her side. "Lord Baelish here is your uncle? Your name is Merrin? And yours is Alayne, yes?" The girls nod, sitting down in their chairs, eyes fixated on the floor. "Perhaps you would feel more comfortable if Lord Baelish left the room."

"My Lady—"

"I wasn't asking you," Waynwood snaps, fixing Littlefinger with a glare.

"He can stay," Sansa whispers.

"Speak up, girl, you're not a damn kitchen mouse," Lord Royce barks. "Tell us what you saw."

Sansa flinches, eyes brimming over already. She looks, frantically to Rose, who gives her a small, reassuring nod. Then, she looks over her shoulder, at where Littlefinger sits, visibly tense.

"I'm sorry, Lord Baelish," Rose says, softly. "But, we have to tell them the truth. We're tired of running." Not wanting to linger on him, she turns back around and lifts her chin, swallowing. "We'll tell you everything. I swear."

Waynwood nods. "Please, Merrin. Leave nothing out."

Rose takes a deep breath. "My name isn't Merrin," she says, rigidly. "I'm Rose Stark of Winterfell, eldest daughter of Eddard and Catelyn Stark. This is my sister, Sansa." Her eyes flit over their stunned faces. "Lord Royce, we met you once when you came to Winterfell. If I remember rightly, you were escorting your son, Ser Waymar, to Castle Black."

"Rose Stark?" he gasps, looking back and forth between the girls. His face twists into rage, scowling over at Littlefinger. "You tell lies right to my face, you little worm?" he snaps.

"Lord Baelish has told numerous lies," Rose says, grimly. "All of them to protect me and my sister." She glances at Sansa, warily.

Sansa sniffles then begins. "Since our father was executed, we have been hostages in King's Landing," she says, tearfully. "Playthings for Joffrey to torture, or Queen Cersei to torment. They beat us, they humiliated us, they married me to the Imp. We had no friends in King's Landing . . . except one." She turns to look at Littlefinger, tears spilling down her cheeks. "He saved us. Smuggled us away when he had the chance." She looks back towards the council, wiping her damp face. "He knew we'd be safe here in the Eyrie, with our own blood, our Aunt Lysa."

"Only, the Lannisters have confidantes everywhere," Rose croaks. "Including the Vale. It was important that we didn't tell anyone our true names."

"Your secret is safe with us, My Lady," says the knight.

"Your father grew up right here in these halls," says Lord Royce. For the first time, his face breaks out in a fond smile. "We hunted together many times. He was a fine man."

"Tell us what happened to your aunt, my dears," Lady Waynwood instructs, gently.

Sansa folds her hands, neatly on her lap. "You knew her well, my lords, My Lady," she begins, timidly. "You knew she was a troubled woman. She always loved Lord Baelish. She told us herself." She looks to Rose, who nods in agreement. "From the moment he arrived at the gates of Riverrun, a boy of eight carrying everything he owned in a little sack. She confessed that she never loved Lord Arryn. She did as her father commanded, as so many of us have. When the gods finally allowed her to be with Lord Baelish, she was so happy. For a time." Pointedly, she glances at Rose.

Rose squirms in her seat. "Our aunt was a very jealous woman," she explains, trying to keep her voice steady. "She seemed . . . frightened, most of the time. Terrified that Lord Baelish didn't love her, that he would toss her aside for a younger woman. Then, one day, she — she saw him kissing me," she finishes, in a tiny voice.

"Lady Rose," Royce exclaims.

"It was a peck on the cheek, Lord Royce, nothing more," Rose splutters out. "I swear it. Lord Baelish is our uncle now, by marriage. I would never . . ." she shakes her head, digging her nail into her thumb, hard, to make tears appear in her eyes. "It wasn't my intention to cause Lysa such distress. Lord Baelish has been so kind to us. He's protected us, risking his own life to do so. We'd be dead if it weren't for him. But, then, Aunt Lysa, she—"

"She turned on me," Sansa interrupts, the tears flowing fast down her cheeks, now, her breath hitching. "She cursed me. Called me a liar, called Rose a whore. Promised to throw me through the Moon Door. When Lord Baelish tried to calm her, she _struck_ him! She said she didn't want to live anymore. She stood on the edge of that Moon Door." Rose cannot help it — she watches in silent amazement as the lies flow, easily off Sansa's tongue. "He tried to reason with her. Promised her she was the only one he had ever loved, but . . . she stepped through those doors, and she was . . ."

Unable to finish, she staggers to her feet, burying her face in her hands.

Waynwood moves, quickly to her side, wrapping her bony arms around her. "Shush," she soothes. "It's not your fault, sweet girl. It's not your fault."

Rose remains still, not trusting herself to move. When the tension becomes too much, she tilts her chin around to sneak a glance at Littlefinger. He hasn't moved at all, nor has the look on his face changed. Then, his cold blue eyes dart from Sansa to Rose, and the corner of his lip twitches upwards.

* * *

She knocks on the door but hears no response. Frowning, she steps inside her sister's chambers to find them empty, the bed made, her sewing instruments laid neatly on the table. "Sansa?" Rose calls.

She hears someone entering the room behind her. Turning around, she cannot help the small gasp that escapes her. Sansa stands there, in her robe, her hair damp, but a far darker shade of red — almost black, like Littlefinger's. She has a bright, proud smile on her face. "How do I look?"

"Not yourself," Rose murmurs. "But beautiful, as always," she adds quickly when her sister's face falls a little.

Sansa regains her composure and crosses the room towards the bed. "I finally finished it," she announces, her hand grazing over the raven black dress sprawled on the sheets. "And yours, too." Gesturing, she points out the dress next to it, crimson in colour.

Rose forces a smile. "Thank you." She chews on her bottom lip. "Are you alright?"

Sansa pretends not to have heard her. "I'll give you some space to get changed," she says, her bright smile still intact. "We'll be leaving soon." Picking up her dress, she heads out the door, back towards the washing room.

Rose watches her leave, her wet, darkened hair swaying against her back. She recalls what Littlefinger had said to them when they arrived at the Eyrie. _You know what kind of stories poor men enjoy the most? One about rich girls they'll never meet . . . tales stretch far when you're born a beauty._

Instinctively, her hand goes to her braid, which falls down to her waist. She remembers how Theon used to run his fingers through her hair, how he adored its strange golden colour and the way it curled around his hand in wild ringlets. _A girl, with hair like the sun, and eyes like the sea_. Everything inside of her aches, and she feels the sudden urge to burst into tears.

Turning, she looks at her reflection in the mirror above the table. Her hand closes around the pair of shears resting in front of it, her heart sinking in the knowledge of what she is about to do.

* * *

Rose leans against the parapet, watching the snow melt on the mountains. The cold wind washes over her in an oddly soothing way. She hears footsteps approaching her from behind but doesn't need to turn her head to know it's him.

"First time I saw Sansa, she was just a child," he muses. "A girl from the North come to the capital for the first time. Not a child any longer."

"No, she's not," Rose agrees.

Littlefinger walks to her side, looking out at the view, his hands placed on the marble railing. He stands so close to her, his arm brushes against hers, the soft contact causing her insides to twist into knots. He turns his head to study her. "You look stunning," he notes.

Rose feels her cheeks warming. She hadn't recognised herself when she'd looked in the mirror. Her waves of golden hair no longer fall to the small of her back but hover over her shoulders in a much neater fashion. The dress she wears is nipped in at the waist, over the corset she's donned. It's a blood red colour, embroidered with soft floral patterns, the bodice dipping in a scooped neckline. Around her neck, she wears a small, black chain, with House Baelish's mockingbird dangling over her cleavage.

She notices Littlefinger staring at the sigil, bemused. "Why did you help me?"

Rose doesn't look at him. "You promised to help me get my home back," she explains, plainly. "I have the Stark name, but I'm no politician. I'm not as clever as you at getting what I want. Nor am I all that cunning. So, I'm holding you to that promise. Should you break it—"

"You'll kill me," Littlefinger finishes, tersely. "As you wanted to kill Aunt Lysa."

"I'll tell them the truth about her. About how she died."

Littlefinger stares at her, not understanding for a split second. Then, he angles himself to face her, looking down at her with mild surprise. "It was a gamble, telling those lords who you truly are."

"Yes, it was." Rose tries to suppress her smug smile. "Now, I know they won't expose us, should something terrible happen to you."

Finally, she looks at him. He gazes back, her thinly veiled threat hanging in the air between them. She half-expects him to look furious, but he doesn't. He looks almost proud.

She moves to leave, but he nabs her arm. Her heart momentarily stops, but Littlefinger doesn't make any move to hurt her. Instead, his other hand comes up to brush against her cheek, the pad of his thumb smoothing over her lip. "Sweet girl," he whispers. "You're more cunning than you think you are."

* * *

"I've never left home before, Uncle Petyr," Robin protests, as they descend the marble staircase. Rose has her arm wrapped around his shoulders and can feel him trembling as he nudges, closer to her side. "I'm afraid to leave."

"You shouldn't be," Littlefinger insists.

"The Lord of the Vale belongs in the Eyrie, Mother said. She said it's not safe outside."

"It wasn't safe for her _inside_." Littlefinger reaches the bottom of the staircase and turns to face Robin, smiling, as kindly as he can manage. "People die at their dinner table. They die in their beds. They die squatting over their chamber pots. Everybody dies sooner or later. Don't worry about your death." He takes him by the shoulders, looking him, squarely in the eye. "Worry about your life. Take charge of your life for as long as it lasts. That is what it means to be Lord of the Vale."

Footsteps approach from up the stairs. Rose turns her head to see Sansa, stepping out from the hallway, the sun catching her as she passes. She is almost unrecognisable as she descends the staircase, in her feathered black dress, which dips in at her cleavage, a homemade chain necklace, and her darkened hair pulled backward, away from her slender features. _She looks like a woman_.

"Shall we go?" she asks, coyly.

Reaching the bottom of the staircase, she laces her arm through Rose's. Littlefinger watches as the two girls share a small, smug smile, and head for the great doors.

* * *

 **A/N:** I know that Littlefinger and Sansa do not appear in the final episodes of Season Four, but I've got some big stuff planned for these last two chapters regarding Rose! Would Rose truly follow through on her threat? Would she expose Littlefinger as a liar if he doesn't fulfil his promises to her? Let me know what you think.


	39. The Watchers on the Wall

**The Watchers on the Wall**

"We could spend all night trading tales of lost loves. Nothing makes the past a sweeter place to visit than the prospect of imminent death."

* * *

Rose leans back in her seat, watching Littlefinger staring out of the window, at where Sansa and Robin are strolling around the gardens — the two had managed to reconcile after their quarrel, much to Rose's relief.

"You seem awfully chipper this morning," says Rose, noting the small smile on his face.

Littlefinger doesn't look round. "Do I?"

"Mm-hm." Rose puts her book down on her lap. "Considering another man is about to die for a crime you committed." Although she keeps her tone light, she can't help flinching at the thought.

Littlefinger turns his head and notices this. Slowly, he crosses the room towards the table. "Despite what your parents might have told you, it is not a misdeed to be selfish, at times." He sits down in the chair opposite her, tracing small patterns on the wooden table with his outstretched finger. "Or, to prioritise your life above someone else's. Not that I expect a girl as noble as yourself to understand that."

Rose fixes him with a sharp look. "Tyrion was kind to us, and we left him there to die."

"Matters beyond your control, my love," Littlefinger dismisses.

Rose scoffs, too bemused to be irritated. "If you've taught me anything, Lord Baelish, it's that there's never a matter out of your control. _If_ you consider it from every possible angle. For example, you found a way to smuggle us out of King's Landing without even setting foot in the capital yourself."

"True." Littlefinger nods, leisurely. "That took patience and planning. And time, which is something Lord Tyrion doesn't have."

Rose rolls her eyes, her heart sinking. "It's not right," she whispers. "He doesn't deserve to suffer like this." She thinks of the last time she saw him — at Joffrey's wedding when he'd tipped the wine over Tyrion's head, publically humiliating him, kicking around that chalice to goad him. She swallows back the lump forming in her throat.

Littlefinger reaches over and clasps Rose's hand, giving it a soft squeeze. "Put it out of your mind," he says, warmly. He doesn't linger for long, releasing her, turning back to the window, watching Sansa pointing at the flower beds, informing Robin which ones to pick.

Rose follows his gaze. "Let's keep it from Sansa, for now," she suggests, biting down on her lower lip. "I'll find the right time to tell her."

"Whatever you want," Littlefinger agrees. Their eyes flit to each other. He searches her face, trying to read her thoughts. "If there's something else on your mind . . ."

Rose arches an eyebrow. "You have a promise to honour."

"I do, indeed."

She sits, waiting for him to continue, but he says nothing, gazing back at her with a suggestive look. "I assume you have a plan in mind," she prompts him, dryly. "For how we'll take Winterfell back from the Boltons."

Littlefinger nods, steadily. "I have a plan, yes," he confirms, too vaguely for Rose's liking. "I'm waiting for some new information to come through. It shouldn't take too long. Then, we can discuss our next move in more detail."

Rose frowns, miffed. "Care to share?" she asks. With another scoff, she answers herself, "No, of course not."

Littlefinger smiles at her like a father might smile at a petulant child, which only makes her more incensed. "Nothing that I have in mind will work without your trust," he tells her.

She says nothing, turning to scowl out of the window, with a small huff.

* * *

"After the Battle of the Seven Stars, Gulltown submitted to King Artys, along with most of the Vale," Littlefinger explains, as they walk across the harbour. "Your ancestors helped the Graftons flourish this town into one of the greatest cities in Westeros."

"Then, during the War Across the Water, _our_ ancestors burned hundreds of Vale ships after Gulltown's stone walls resisted the Northmen's attempt at conquest," Sansa finishes, tartly.

All eyes swivel to her, surprised. "My little sister," Rose chuckles. "The history scholar."

Robin frowns up at them. "Our families weren't always aligned, then?"

"We should not blame one another for the mistakes of our predecessors, My Lord," Littlefinger insists, giving Sansa a disapproving look, which she returns with a wry smile.

Rose places a gentle hand on Robin's back. "Jon, your father, he helped to put Robert Baratheon on the throne. He held the realm together while the King drank, and ate, and whored his way through his reign. You should be proud of him," she insists, smiling kindly when he looks up at her with sad eyes. "He was a good man."

She glances behind her, to see Littlefinger grinning, pleased with her. He quickens his pace, matching his stride to Robin's. "Walk with me, My Lord," he entreats. He wraps his arm around his shoulders and together, they walk ahead of the girls.

Rose slows her pace until she's walking side-by-side with Sansa, who slips an arm through hers. "I can't imagine what that's like," Rose sighs. "To have all that responsibility put on you, at such a young age."

"He won't be a good ruler," Sansa says, plainly. "He's extremely witless, and that's coming from me." Derision fills her voice. "Me and all my silly delusions."

"Be kind," Rose pleads, giving her a small poke. "He's doing the best he can. Besides, Lord Baelish is Lord Protector of the Vale, now. He'll do what he can to prepare Robin for . . . future endeavours." As the words leave her mouth, she instantly feels daunted at the prospect of further danger. That the people she loves aren't quite out of the woods yet — in fact, they have more enemies than ever.

Sansa glances sideways to look at her. "And, what does the future look like for us?" she asks, her tone still bitter. "For you and me."

"What do you want it to look like?"

Sansa slows down, abruptly. "When I was a little girl, I dreamed of leaving Winterfell. To trade it in for a more fascinating place, like the capital. A place where I could be Queen. In the end, I got everything I ever wanted." She turns her head, fixing Rose with stony eyes. "Don't let me wish for anything ever again."

Rose swallows, thickly. "There's nothing wrong with having hope, Sansa."

She says nothing to this, staring ahead of them, at where Littlefinger is walking Robin along the lining of ships. The houses in Gulltown are large, made out of colourful stones, with thatched roofs. Far more beautiful than the towns near Winterfell. The sky today is full of clouds, the blueness of the sky barely peeking through.

"Littlefinger is in love with you."

The statement makes her jump. "What?"

"Don't tell me you haven't noticed," Sansa exclaims. "The way he looks at you. You've been doing an awful lot of looking recently."

Rose frowns, bemused. "This coming from the girl who freely admits she's not the best at reading people."

"You don't have to be good at reading people to see how he feels about you!" Sansa cries, then quickly lowers her voice when Littlefinger glances over his shoulder at them. "It's obvious, Rose."

Feeling guilty, she stops in her tracks. Sansa comes to a halt, standing in front of her, the amusement on her face morphing to concern. Rose gazes back at her, grimly. "I think he wants me to marry him," she admits, in a small voice.

Sansa doesn't look surprised. Her lips set into a hard line. "Is that what you want?"

"No," Rose answers instantly, truthfully. "Only, he commands the Vale. For now, at least." She sucks in a breath at the look on Sansa's face. When did she start looking so mature? "The Vale has more than enough men to take Winterfell back from the Boltons, should we choose to rally them."

"They'll fight for us, whether you marry him, or not," Sansa insists.

"Will they?" Rose demands, frustrated. "The Northmen and the Vale were at war for years. The blood ties between them died with our mother and Aunt Lysa. If a Stark marries the Lord Protector of the Vale, we can be _certain_ they will stand with us."

Sansa shakes her head, baffled. "You'd be his wife. His _wife_ , Rose." She squares her shoulders, her gaze like stone, and lifts her chin in the air. "And what would I be?"

Rose gapes. "My sister," she whispers, clasping both of her hands. "Always. I want Littlefinger's help, but . . . I don't need him like I need you," she confesses.

A part of her wants to lament it from the rooftops — how frightened she truly is. Only with Sansa becoming steelier by the day, the last thing she needs is a sign of weakness from her elder sister.

"I have no intention of leaving you behind," she says, fiercely. "Never."

Sansa sighs, unsurely, but nods her head.

* * *

 **A/N:** Only one chapter left for this season . . . I can't believe how quickly it's come and gone! Please keep leaving your thoughts and suggestions.


	40. The Children

**A/N:** contains explicit sexual content.

* * *

 **The Children**

"You will never walk again . . . but you will fly."

* * *

Rose climbs the staircase of the inn, exhausted from the events of the day. Littlefinger had sailed them to the Three Sisters, and the majority of the afternoon had been spent on various boat trips. While Sansa had mastered control of her stomach over the sea, Robin had his head hanging over the ship the entire time. They had stopped at Longsister to rest for the night before their journey back to the Eyrie.

Stifling a yawn, Rose rounds the corner to her room and is mildly surprised to find her door ajar. Cautiously, she pushes it open. She sighs, irritated when she sees Littlefinger sat on the window ledge, staring out at the sleeting rain. He turns his head, catching the infuriation on her face with a smile. "Learn to lock your chambers."

"I did." Rose shuts the door behind her, and crosses the room, folding her arms. "Heard back from your little moles?"

"Not just yet."

Rose arches an eyebrow. "This plan of yours is taking a long time to put into action."

"Patience, my love," Littlefinger hushes, his voice smooth over the pattering rain. "The day a seed is planted is not the day you eat the fruit that grows."

Rose lets out a laugh. "Haven't had nearly enough wine for your analogies, My Lord." With a dry smile, she walks over to the table and picks up the flagon, drawing one of the cups closer to her.

However, Littlefinger rises to his feet and takes her wrist. "No wine tonight," he orders, gently, tugging her hand away. "I'd like you to have a clear head, for what I'm about to tell you."

Rose looks up at him, frowning. "What is it?"

Littlefinger gazes down at her, the blueness in his eyes warm. He outstretches his arm, gesturing for her to sit down on the window ledge. Partly confused, partly scared, Rose does so, watching his movements, carefully. He moves to stand in front of her, weighing his next words in his head. With a decisive smile, he takes both of her hands.

"When you were born, your mother wrote to me," he begins, quietly, tracing her soft skin with his thumb. "She told me all about the beautiful baby girl she'd birthed. How the Northern lords and ladies had gathered to Winterfell to catch a glimpse of her lovely Rose. Some of them instantly offering up their sons as prospective husbands. You were merely days old, and already the most beloved person in the North. I thought to myself no babe, no girl, nor woman could ever compare to your mother. Even if they shared her blood."

His eyes trail upwards to meet hers. Rose feels her heart doing uncomfortable somersaults as he steps even closer to her, lifting his hands to cradle her face. "Now, I look at you every day," he whispers, ardently. "And I marvel at your beauty. Your spirit, your good heart. Everywhere I look in my future . . . I see you by my side."

Rose stares at him, at a loss for words. "Lord Ba — _Petyr_ , I don't—"

"Marry me," Littlefinger interrupts. His eyes search hers, almost desperately. "You shall have the backing of the Vale. You shall forever have my council. I will dedicate my life to seeing you in the North, where you belong. I will defend you with my life, and give it to save yours if need be." His cool hands brush down her face, resting on her shoulders. "I will give you everything you desire if you say yes."

Rose stares up at him. She scours her mind, trying to find an excuse. Trying to find a way out. But, either she's not clever enough, or there truly is no other way. Regardless, she finds herself nodding along, her heart sinking as she does so.

* * *

The only sound comes from the crackle of the fireplace. Sansa stands behind Rose, saying nothing as she weaves her shortened hair up, into a braided knot. The palpable tension in the room makes her want to squirm, but Rose remains as still as a statue, staring into the flames until her eyes hurt.

"What does Lord Royce have to say?" asks Sansa, eventually.

"Lord Baelish can't trust this information to a raven," Rose replies. "After Robin has returned to the Eyrie, we'll head for the Fingers." She feels a sharp twinge of pain as Sansa tugs on her scalp but doesn't dare protest. The mood is strained enough as it is.

Sansa lets out a sigh. "If the Lannisters find out—"

"All they will hear is that Lord Baelish has remarried."

"To his own niece."

Rose scoffs. "Cersei can hardly pass remark."

Finally, her hair is finished, pinned away from her face. She rises to her feet and turns to face her sister. Sansa stares at her, subtly admiring her handiwork. The dress is simple, a beautiful ivory colour made of lace. The sheer sleeves travel down to her wrist, the neckline stretching to her jaw, the corset pinching her waist inwards. The mass of skirts bustles out, falling right to her feet. Sansa smooths them down, fussing with her for a moment.

Rose stares at her sister, and her eyes start to sting. "I'm sorry," she whispers. Sansa's head snaps up to look at her. Rose shakes her head and tears spill down her cheeks. "If this is how awful you felt before you were forced to marry Tyrion, I'm sorry I did nothing to stop it."

Sansa frowns, thrown by this. Quickly, she gathers herself together and tugs Rose into her arms, hugging her, tightly. Rose squeezes her eyes shut, silently pleading herself to stop crying. When they draw apart, Sansa wipes, gently at her damp cheeks.

"I'm not doing this because I'm in love with Littlefinger," Rose insists, croaking. "I'm doing this for you. For our home."

Sansa smiles, softly. "Sometimes I wish I were as brave as you."

* * *

The night has settled into a gentle mist, clouding around the hem of Rose's dress. Implicitly, she tightens her hold on Robin's arm as they walk the narrow, cobbled walkway through the godswood.

Littlefinger hadn't trusted a septon to perform the ceremony in secret, so Rose convinced him to let her do it the only way she knew how — in front of a weirwood tree, kneeling before it like they do in the North. The fact that he so readily agreed to this gave her a small comfort; if she is to be trapped inside a marriage she doesn't want, at least she'll have a husband willing to listen.

Her breath trembling, she looks up to the sky. Glistening through the treetops, she can see the crescent moon peeking through the mist, hanging in a starless black canopy. It becomes easier to pretend she's back in Winterfell, heading out to the godswood past dark. The only time it was just her, with no one else around to hear her nightly prayers.

Candles light their path, all the way to the weirwood tree. The mist seems to part before them, and she can see the tree, carved and thin, with its sprout of scarlet leaves. Littlefinger stands beneath them, dressed in black, as always.

Standing close to the tree, but a safe enough distance away, is Sansa, forcing herself to look supportive. Rose's eyes, however, remain fixated on Littlefinger, and the smile that spreads across his face.

 _I am a Stark of Winterfell. A wolf, more so than a woman . . . and wolves do not cower from mockingbirds._

She lifts her chin in the air, mustering what little courage she has left.

"Who comes before the gods?" Littlefinger asks.

"Rose of House Stark comes here to be wed," Robin announces, far too proudly in his boyish voice. "A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?"

Littlefinger steps forward, his piercing eyes bearing into Rose's. "Petyr of House Baelish, Lord Protector of the Vale, and Lord of Harrenhal. Who gives her?"

"Robin of House Arryn, who is her cousin. Lady Rose, will you take this man?"

She bites down on her lip. Let it happen now — let her father descend from the heavens and rescue her from this. Let Robb and her mother appear out of nowhere, and whisk her away, back to Winterfell. Let her wake up, and for all of this to be another horrid nightmare. Or, please, let someone, anyone save her.

No one does.

"I take this man," says Rose, in a small voice.

Robin steps back and moves over to where Sansa is staring, grimly at the scene. Littlefinger's hand closes around hers, and together, they kneel before the heart tree, their heads bowing in unison.

* * *

Littlefinger opens the door to the attic room in the inn. It's not as large as Rose had expected it to be, especially on her wedding night, but the size of her chambers is the least of her worries. The large, canopy bed is draped with thick, woven blankets of mismatching patterns, and a fireplace roars in a hearth close to the window — the warmth flushes Rose's cheeks. Instantly, her gaze settles on the table, which holds a pitcher of wine and two cups.

Relief fills her for the briefest second. She crosses the room and fills up a cup, without turning to see if Littlefinger has followed her. But, she hears the door closing. The blood tremoring in her ears, she swallows back the entire cup and sets it down on the table. Her head reels, but this gives her the courage to do what comes next.

Slowly, Rose walks toward the bed. She takes a moment to admire the handiwork of the blankets, brushing her fingertips along them. Littlefinger approaches her from behind. His hands slink around her waist, his lips buried into the crook of her neck, planting a soft kiss there. Surely, he can feel how rigid she is in his embrace.

In truth, Rose hadn't completely thought this through. She hadn't been with a man, not properly, since she was raped at Winterfell. It almost makes her want to laugh; how prepared she is to overcome her fears and sleep with the man who has promised to take her back to that place, the place where she was terrorised.

Even more ironic; how she wishes she were still there. Now more than ever.

Bracing herself, she waits patiently, while Littlefinger begins tugging at the laces of her gown, the material loosening around her. His movements are slow and aching. Then, he pushes the fabric from her shoulders, baring them. Rose closes her eyes, pleading herself to enjoy this. His warm breath tickles her neck as the material slips, further and further down her body.

Littlefinger skilfully removes her corset, and the gush of air flows into Rose so suddenly, she lets out a gasp. Her cheeks turn pink at the sound. Suddenly, she is aware that she is very, very naked, her bridal clothes puddled at her feet.

Nervously, she turns in his arms, so their gazes are aligned. Littlefinger looks down at her with heated eyes, a hint of smugness on his face. He takes her hands in his and draws them towards his own clothes. Understanding, and growing more confident by the second, Rose starts to undress him, baring his chest first.

Rose blinks, staring at him. He has a scar, long a slender, running from his naval to his collarbone. Without thinking, she reaches out to touch it. Littlefinger grips her wrist, tightly, stopping her from doing so. She looks up to find him staring down at her, a soft warning flashing in his eyes. Gulping, she slides her hand out of his grip and gets to work taking off his breeches.

Soon, they are both completely naked, standing in front of one another.

Taking in a deep breath, Rose sits down on the bed and edges herself backward, lying against the woven blankets. Littlefinger follows her down, looming over her. She keeps her eyes fixated on the scar across his body, unable to look him in the eyes.

Rather than plunge inside of her, as she half-expected him to do, he plants a kiss on her jawline. His lips trail down her, as they did all those months ago in King's Landing. Quick, simple kisses to her neck, then to her nipple, extracting a delicate whimper from her, then her stomach and, finally, the inside of her thigh.

Littlefinger looks up at her, searching her face for a reaction. He positions himself between her, but his hands find her first. Carefully, he brushes his fingers along her dampened entrance, beginning to prod them inside.

Rose cannot help it — she reaches down to bat him away, but he grabs her wrist again and pins it to the side of her head. He stares down at her, that same gentle warning in his eyes. Her entire body going numb, Rose nods, giving him the reluctant blessing to continue.

He shifts, so he has ahold of both of her hands, keeping them in place against the bed. And, looking her in her Tully blue eyes, he pushes himself inside of her. Rose averts her gaze. She focuses on the canopy above her, tracing the patterns with her glassy eyes, swallowing back the tears that threaten to surface.

* * *

 **A/N:** For some reason, I got really choked up writing this final chapter. Rose is in such a vulnerable position, with the illusion in her head of retaking Winterfell and not a single ally (except, perhaps Littlefinger?). We'll see if he keeps up his end of the bargain.

Next month will be Season Five! Another surprising few turns of events, and a lot more of Rose's wolfish side to show.


	41. The Wars to Come

**A/N:** SURPRISE!

In honour of reaching 100 follows on this story and the season finale on Sunday, I am uploading Season Five a little early! I have had so much time on my hands since coming home from uni and am ploughing through this story. Would you believe I'm onto writing Season Seven already?!

Rose's journey gets more and more interesting to write, and I am so excited to share everything I have in store for her. Rest assured, amidst the bad moments, there will be some good, joyful ones.

So, this is my gift to you, my 100 wonderful followers. Season Six will still be uploaded on the 1st June as planned, but for now, enjoy Season Five!

* * *

 **The Wars to Come**

"The freedom to make my own mistakes was all I ever wanted."

* * *

Rose awakens to the bright light streaming in through the window. With a groan, she rolls onto her side, ignoring the soreness in her limbs. She stretches out a hand to find the opposite side of the bed is empty.

"Up, my love," Littlefinger calls, from across the room. "Get dressed. We'll be leaving soon."

Rose pushes the strands of hair out of her face, sitting up. "Already?" she murmurs, her voice hoarse from sleep. "We've only been back two days."

"Two days which have been wasted in bed, not lifting a finger." He finishes fastening his cloak around his shoulders, sealing it with his mockingbird pin. "As you never fail to remind me, we have business to be getting on with."

"Do we?" Rose arches an eyebrow. She draws the ivory satin sheets up to cover her naked chest. "You've been thoroughly secretive these past few months, writing to all your little spooks. What happened to working together?"

"What happened to trusting me?" Littlefinger counters.

Rose purses her lips. "I'll have an easier time of it, if you just tell me what you're up to."

His face twists into a sly smile. He walks around the bed, and sits down next to her. "You are tenacious," he murmurs.

Sliding his hand around the back of her neck, he pulls her in for a deep, but fleeting kiss. When he draws apart, his hand falls to her abdomen, stroking it with his thumb, thoughtfully. Rose frowns, but doesn't question it. His eyes dart over her body, exposed as the sheets slip from her again. "Dress," he orders, gently. "Before I'm tempted to pounce on you, again."

Rose feels her cheeks growing pink as he leaves the room. With a sigh, she flops back down against the pillows, relishing its comfort, in the grim knowledge she'll soon have to face the outside world again.

* * *

"Shield up. Attack, My Lord! Attack! Don't cross your feet."

Robin flails about, wildly, grunting each time Ser Gunther's sword clatters against his back or his stomach. Rose has to bite down on her lip to refrain from laughing. Even _she_ had more grace than Robin the first time she wielded Redthorn. A small smile escapes her as her cousin slips on the muddy ground for the third time. Glancing her way, she can see Sansa struggling to keep from laughing, too.

"My sons had swords in their hands from the time they could walk," Lord Royce grumbles. "This one—"

"Lord Arryn will never be a great warrior," Littlefinger says.

"Great warrior?" Royce exclaims. "He swings a sword like a girl with palsy."

A maester crosses over to them from across the grounds, flushed in the face. "My Lord," he gasps, offering out a sealed scroll to Littlefinger. He takes it, nodding his thanks.

Rose watches him out of the corner of her eye. He unravels the scroll, scanning the handwriting, then rolls it back up, and slips it into his sleeve. "Some boys develop more slowly," he points out. "He's still young."

"He's thirteen," Royce sighs. "Boys go to war at thirteen."

"He has other gifts."

"Does he?"

"The gift of a great name." Littlefinger rises to his feet, with a small smile. "Sometimes, that's all one needs."

He extends his arm, gesturing for the girls to step down from the stalls. Rose slips her hand into Sansa's and leads her down, her husband following, Lord Royce falling into step behind him. The group turn their backs on a scrambling Robin and head across the grounds.

"Goodbye, Lord Royce," Sansa says. "And thank you for all you've done for us."

"I have done nothing more than my duty, My Lady," he insists.

"Still, your kindness will be remembered," Rose promises, giving him a smile, which he meekly returns.

"I have no doubt that on my return, Robin's skills will have improved immeasurably," Littlefinger says, stopping in his tracks next to the stone walls.

"He'll be safe here." Royce glances over his shoulder in time to see Robin being knocked onto his stomach, and grimaces. "As for his skills, I make no promises."

* * *

"You told Lord Royce we were going to the Fingers."

"I did."

Sansa frowns. "But, we're heading west."

"We are."

"If he were going to betray us, he'd have done so by now," Rose points out.

Littlefinger glances away from the window, to where the girls are seated, opposite him in the carriage, as it jerks down the cobbled road. "Lord Royce might be as honourable as he thinks he is, but he's not alone in that castle. Do you trust all those knights and ladies, stable boys and serving girls?"

"No," Sansa replies. "Do you trust the carriage driver, or the knights escorting us?"

Littlefinger chuckles. "No," he confesses. "But, I pay them well and they've seen what happens to men who disappoint me."

"So, where are we going?" Sansa asks, mordantly. "To a land where you trust everyone?"

"To a land so far from here, even Cersei Lannister can't get her hands on you."

Rose and Sansa exchange a perplexed look, but neither of them says a word. Rose turns her head to look out of the window, watching the vast fields swim past them as they travel, further and further away from the Vale.

* * *

 **A/N:** Why is Littlefinger being so secretive with Rose? What does he have to hide/fear?


	42. The House of Black and White

**A/N:** contains sexual content.

* * *

 **The House of Black and White**

"You understood fear once long ago, but you've forgotten what it means. Someone who's forgotten fear has forgotten how to hide. Fear is useful that way."

* * *

The knights escort them into the small tavern, flanking them on either side of the table, causing many to turn their heads and stare. Sansa and Rose sit on one side, tucking into their kidney pies, whilst Littlefinger sits opposite them, deep in thought.

"Before we left, a maester gave you a raven's scroll," Sansa says, suddenly.

Littlefinger looks up from his lunch. He glances at Rose, who says nothing, instead turning to look out the window. "You are becoming an observant young lady," Littlefinger commends, leaning back in his seat.

Sansa grins. "Our mother used to say, 'dark wings, dark words'."

"An old saying. Inaccurate in this case."

"Good news, then?" Rose asks, peering at him.

Littlefinger stares back at her, and his smile dims. At that moment, a young tavern girl approaches them, smiling from ear to ear. "Ale?" she asks, offering the flagon.

"Yes, please." Rose grabs her cup and extends it.

After her cup is filled, Sansa holds hers out, too. "I'll have some."

Rose frowns, bemused. "It's too bitter," she chuckles. "You won't like it."

Sansa shrugs. "Your sweet tooth can handle it," she says, throwing her a wry sideways glance. "Why not mine?" She takes a long sip, but her face gives no indication of how she likes it.

"Well?" Rose prompts.

"Don't see what all the fuss is about," she murmurs, setting the cup down on the table with a small thud. "Why do men love it so much?"

"It gives some men courage," Littlefinger says.

Sansa arches an eyebrow. "Does it give you courage?"

Littlefinger peers back at her, the corners of his lips twitching up into a smirk. His eyes quickly flit to Rose, who again, does not contribute anything. Before he can respond, there's the sound of heavy, approaching footsteps, and the clank of armour.

"That's far enough," one knight grunts.

"Lord Baelish," calls a woman's voice, vaguely familiar. "Lady Rose. Lady Sansa." Rose's eyes blow wide in alarm, and Sansa's hand stretches out to grip hers. "My name is Brienne of Tarth."

"We've met," Littlefinger says, calmly. "With Renly Baratheon. What did he say about you? He said, your loyalty came free of charge." His face twists into a sneer. "Someone appears to have paid quite a bit for it since then." He beckons her forward, and the knights stand aside.

Brienne steps through, and Rose has to catch her breath. She's tall, towering well above the rest of the knights, dressed in thick, metal armour. In her hand, she clasps the hilt of her belted sword, her face sombre. Her eyes fixate on Rose and Sansa, and she kneels, unexpectedly before them.

"My ladies," she greets. "Before your mother's death, I was her sworn sword. I gave my word I would find you and protect you. I will shield your backs and keep your counsels, and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it, by the Old Gods and the New."

Littlefinger suppresses a chuckle. "Please, Lady Brienne. No need for such formality." He rises to his feet, and she follows, but her intense eyes remain darting between Rose and Sansa. "You were Catelyn Stark's sworn sword."

"I was."

"Strange. I knew Cat from the time we were children. She never mentioned you."

"It was after Renly's murder," Brienne explains, tersely.

"Ah, yes." Littlefinger tilts his head, frowning. "You were accused of killing him."

Her head whips around to glower at him. "I tried to save him."

"But, you were accused."

"By men who did not see what happened."

"And what did happen?" Littlefinger demands, his voice sharp, now.

With a grimace, Brienne turns back to the girls. "He was murdered by a shadow," she explains, quietly, as though she knows how ridiculous she sounds. "A shadow with the face of Stannis Baratheon."

"A shadow?" Littlefinger repeats, snidely. "With a face?"

Rose leans forward in her seat, peering at her. "You swore to protect Renly Baratheon, and you admit you failed," she says, slowly. "You swore to protect our mother, and again, you failed."

Brienne flinches. "My Lady—"

"Why would I want somebody with your history of failure guarding Cat's children?" Littlefinger asks.

"Why should you have any say in their affairs?" Brienne demands, frustrated.

"Because, I am Lady Rose's husband," he replies, smoothly. "We're family now. And you are an outsider." He watches with mild amusement as Brienne's gaze swivels to a squirming Rose, with a perplexed frown. She looks back up at her, feeling her stomach twisting into knots, but remains tight-lipped. "Forgive me, Lady Brienne," Littlefinger continues. "But, experience has made me wary of outsiders."

Brienne blinks, coming to her senses. "My ladies, if we could have a word alone."

"No," Sansa replies, shortly.

"Please, if I can explain—"

"You were at Joffrey's wedding," Rose says, remembering. "I saw you approach him and bow." Her eyes narrow, anger bubbling in her stomach. "Bow to the monster who slaughtered our mother, the woman you swore to protect."

"None of us wanted to be there," Brienne insists, softly. "Sometimes, we don't have a choice."

"And sometimes, we do," Sansa finishes. "You should leave."

"We don't want our new friend wandering the countryside alone," Littlefinger muses. "The roads in these parts aren't safe. Why don't you stay?" He glances, pointedly to his small horde of knights.

Brienne stares at Rose and Sansa, imploringly. For a split second, a voice in the back of Rose's head whispers, _go with her_ , but she ignores it, pushing it aside. Finally, Brienne turns on her heel, heading back towards the tavern. One of the knights grabs her arm, but she shoves her elbow into his face, causing him to stagger backwards.

Rose watches as she races outside, drawing her sword. The knights follow after her, their shouts, and the sound of hooves thundering on the ground making Rose shudder.

* * *

"Come to bed, my love."

Rose stares out of the window, watching the rain begin to patter against the glass. Her flimsy nightgown is hardly enough to shelter her from the cold air that ripples through, even with the fire burning in the hearth. "Who sent that raven?" she asks, quietly.

"It's not important."

She spins around, eyes narrowed. "It _is_ important. I won't stand for you keeping secrets from me."

"Nor should you." Littlefinger sets down his book, putting it on the table at his bedside. "I will tell you everything soon enough."

He watches, as Rose slowly approaches the bed, her arms crossed over her chest, a small frown on her face. Flinging the blankets from him, he edges himself down to the end of the bed. In one swift movement, he pulls her close to him, so she stands between his legs, and begins drawing up the hem of her nightdress. Sighing, Rose pushes his hands away.

Littlefinger stares up at her, with a soft smile. "The journey is long," he points out. "This is the last time we will be sharing a bed for some time."

"Have some self-control, then," Rose snaps. Again, he begins lifting up her dress, sliding his hands over the back of her thighs. Tutting, she grips his wrists to prevent him from moving them any further. Looking down at him, she searches his bemused face and scowls. "If you're trying to put a baby in me—"

"That is the duty of a wife," Littlefinger says, smoothly. "To provide her husband with heirs."

"I won't bring a baby into this world until I have my home back."

Littlefinger's face softens. His hands go, gently to her hips. "Any child we have will be safe," he promises, looking her, squarely in the eyes. "Sheltered by their father, the Lord Protector of the Vale. And their mother," he adds, reaching up and brushing the hair from her face, "the true Lady of Winterfell. You wish to strengthen your claim—"

"It's not a claim," Rose protests, angrily. "The North is rightfully mine. It belongs to House Stark, regardless who governs it now. It always will." Frustrated, she lets out a heavy sigh, and cradles his face in her hands, feeling his stubble scratch her palms. "It's not the right time."

"It never will be," Littlefinger insists, gravely. "A child blessed into a family with a good name will always be at risk. Whether they are protected by a thousand knights or naught. Born in the long summer, or the winter. It doesn't matter. Your parents knew that when they brought you into this world. They did it anyway because it was their duty to provide the North with its dynasty." Tenderly, he places his hand over her abdomen. "A child that grows inside of you, my love, will be the future of House Stark. You will do your duty, won't you?"

Rose mulls over his words, understanding them, but hating them at the same time. "Not tonight, I won't," she replies, resolutely. He stares up at her, bleakly, with his sharp blue eyes. Then, he begins toying with the hem of her nightdress again. "I'm tired, Petyr," she whispers, in one last, feeble attempt.

Littlefinger pulls her into his lap, so she is mounting him, and holds her still. "It won't take long."

Rose sighs, watching emptily as he pulls his hardened member out of his breeches. Sliding a hand under her thigh, he lifts her a little, and then eases her back down, slipping inside of her. When she makes no further movement, his hands grab her hips and rock her, to and fro.

* * *

 **A/N:** Will Littlefinger ever convince Rose that conceiving an heir is a good idea? Is she falling for his clever way with words?


	43. High Sparrow

**High Sparrow**

"Nothing's more hateful than failing to protect the one you love."

* * *

Rose squints, looking out into the distance. She tries to place a name to the ruined stronghold that stands beneath the hill. _Why does it look so familiar?_ Her horse slows to a halt beneath her. Littlefinger and Sansa, each riding at her side, and the knights escorting them, also stop.

The three of them dismount. Rose and Sansa follow Littlefinger as he steps towards the edge of the hill. The wind whips against their faces, causing the Vale banners to flap behind them. The towers of the building beneath them are coated in green moss, peaked upwards on a stumped hill, with moors surrounding it on either side.

Sansa frowns. "That's Moat Cailin."

"Yes." Littlefinger grimaces. "A bit shabby, isn't it? You've been here before?"

"On our way down to King's Landing, with our father and Arya," Sansa murmurs.

Rose stares out at the fallen stronghold. For a split second, she doesn't understand. Then, she feels very, very sick. Turning her head, she finds Littlefinger staring at her, bleakly. "Why have you taken us here?" she demands. Her voice trembles.

"It's the way home," he replies, softly.

Sansa's head whips around. "The Boltons have Winterfell."

Littlefinger nods. "Some time ago, I made an offer to Roose Bolton. An offer of marriage." He tenses. "It was accepted."

A jolt slams into Rose's chest with tremendous force, making it difficult to breathe. Eyes wide and frightened, she looks to Sansa, who stares back at her with equal horror. "Roose Bolton murdered our brother," she cries. "He betrayed our family."

Again, Littlefinger nods. "He did."

"He serves the Lannisters."

"For now."

The revelation locks Rose's muscles in place. "This has been your plan all along," she whispers, shaking her head. "Everything you say about having the backing of the Vale—"

"Is true."

"But, it didn't matter!" she shouts, her voice carrying out across the hills. "Not any of it! You never wanted to steal Winterfell back from them. You want to destroy them from the inside. And you'll sell my little sister to do it after you _promised_ me _—_!"

"You asked for my help," Littlefinger interrupts. "This is the only way I know how. Regrettably, I am not a military man. I never have been." With a small smile, he looks out to Moat Cailin. "Politics is more my area of expertise."

Sansa shakes her head, frantic tears in her eyes. "I won't go."

"Winterfell is your home."

"Not anymore."

"Always." Littlefinger turns, looking her, squarely in the eye. "You're a Stark. Dying your hair doesn't change that. You're Sansa Stark, daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark. Your place is in the North. As your sister has never failed to remind me," he adds, glancing her way.

Rose's eyes begin to sting. _This is all my fault. I trusted him—_

"I can't marry him," Sansa cries. "You can't make me. He is a traitor. A murderer!"

Littlefinger chuckles, bewildered. "You're not marrying Roose Bolton," he exclaims. "No, you'll be marrying his son and heir, Ramsay—"

"No."

"Sansa—"

"No, you can't make me!" she screeches. "I will starve myself! I will _die_ before I have to go there!"

Littlefinger quickly moves to stand in front of her, taking her by the shoulders. "I won't force you to do anything," he vows. "Don't you know by now how much I care for you? Say the word and we turn the horses around, but listen to me. _Listen_. You've been running all your life. Terrible things happen to your family, and you weep. You sit alone in a darkened room mourning their fates. You've been a bystander to tragedy from the day they executed your father. Stop being a bystander. Do you hear me? Stop running."

He cradles Sansa's face in his hands. She continues to tremble, the tears dribbling down her cheeks. "There's no justice in the world," he tells her, gravely. "Not unless we make it. You loved your family. Avenge them." With that, he glances at Rose, who continues to gape at him in disgust, and heads back over to the horses.

Rose and Sansa remain still and quiet, looking out at Moat Cailin. Sansa sucks in a short breath and looks to her sister, the decision made in her eyes. Rose shakes her head. "You can't," she whispers.

"I can."

"But, you won't." Helplessly, she looks over her shoulder, watching Littlefinger mount his horse. "I am so stupid," she sniffles, her breath hitching. The wind cools her tears as they slide down her cheeks. "He married me before bringing us here because he knew that if I had any idea what he was planning—"

"You would've volunteered yourself, instead of me," Sansa finishes. "To protect me. As you've always done."

Rose shakes her head. "Please, don't do this," she whispers, brokenly. A horrid, painful ache seeps into her chest. "If something happens to you, I can't stop it."

"I'm not a child anymore, Rose," Sansa points out, shakily. With a sad smile, she reaches over and clasps her gloved hand. "You have spent your entire life making sacrifices for me." Her eyes shine, pleadingly. "For once, let _me_ do something brave."

Rose sucks in the cold air, trembling. She wants to order Littlefinger to turn their horses around, to take them to the Fingers as he'd promised. But, if their positions were reversed, she'd want to do the brave thing, too. Anything to help their family.

For a split second, she thinks of Robb — how badly he'd wanted her to stay in Riverrun, where he could protect her, where he knew she'd be safe. How awful he must have felt when she'd left. Now, it's her turn to show the same respect for her sister's choices.

Forcing herself to do it, Rose nods, jerkily. Sansa breathes a sigh of relief, squaring her shoulders. Together, they walk back over to the horses. As Rose mounts hers, she can feel Littlefinger's eyes on her, the smug smile written all over his face. But, the second she fixes him with a look of pure, boiling hatred, that smile vanishes.

* * *

"Open gates!"

The gates swing open, quicker than Rose has ever seen them do so. She gallops through, Littlefinger and Sansa on either side of her, into the courtyard, the knights riding in succession behind them.

Rose looks around, searching the faces of the gathered crowd, trying to find a familiar one. She doesn't. And Winterfell itself, while it still looks like her childhood home, feels different. Darker, murkier. The people far more solemn than she remembers.

Her horse comes to a halt in the very centre, and she dismounts it, fear clawing at her chest.

Ahead of her, Littlefinger guides Sansa forward, to the procession of grim faces. A man, broad in stature, with cold eyes and a greyness in his stubble steps forward to greet her. "Lady Sansa. Welcome."

Sansa stares back at him, then drops into a curtsey with a forced smile. "Lord Bolton."

Littlefinger looks over his shoulder, and beckons Rose forward. She complies, her legs moving, stiffly beneath her. When she reaches his side, he puts a steady hand on the small of her back.

Roose smiles, rigidly back at Sansa. "May I introduce my son, Ramsay Bolton?"

He stands to the side, gesturing behind him. A man, with a boyish face and a mess of dark hair, steps forward, smiling, shyly. "It's an honour to meet you, My Lady," he says, taking Sansa's hand and kissing it. She beams back at him, the relief of his good looks showing, clearly on her face.

Roose's gaze darts to Rose. She stares back at him, her teeth gritted, forcing herself to look into the eyes of the man who drove a knife through her brother's heart.

* * *

Rose sinks back into the basin, the warm waters enveloping her. She lets out a long, slow breath, feeling the steam washing over her. The door creaks open. Littlefinger steps through, undoing his cloak. He lets the door fall shut behind him, his eyes trained on his wife.

"These used to be Bran's chambers," she murmurs, looking around.

Littlefinger sets his cloak down on the chair and perches on the end of the basin. His fingertips trail patterns on the water's surface. "If there's something you'd like to say to me, my love—"

"Don't call me that," Rose snarls. His sharp, blue eyes penetrate hers. "You conspired behind my back, after promising we would work together."

"I made no such promise," Littlefinger replies, calmly. "I pledged to give you everything you wanted."

"What I _wanted_ was to take back the North by force. You knew that." Rose's nose wrinkles in disgust, the anger frothing up inside of her. "It's how you tricked me into marrying you," she spits. "Giving me the Knights of the Vale and a pretty sword. It was all part of the same ploy." She clenches the rim of the basin with her fist. "We could have drawn the Boltons out into an open field and slaughtered them."

"That's not the way to play the game."

"What game?"

"The only game there is."

Rose shakes her head, frustrated. "Why Sansa? Why not me?"

"I told you." Littlefinger's face softens. "The only future I see is the one with you by my side. To watch you marry another would break me in two."

Rose lets out a hollow laugh. "A beautiful sentiment," she scorns. "It's too bad I don't believe a word you say anymore."

Littlefinger watches her, pensively. "I care for your sister," he insists, quietly. "Truly." His demeanour shifts as he straightens up, his face hardening, again. "Stannis Baratheon garrisons at Castle Black. He'll march south to King's Landing before the winter snows block his way. But first, he has to take Winterfell. Once he liberates these lands from the Boltons, he'll rally your father's bannermen to his cause. With the North behind him, Stannis can finally take the Iron Throne."

Rose shakes her head, eyes narrowed. "Petyr, you are so confusing. One minute, you tell me you don't want to take Winterfell back by force, and the next—"

"Not by _my_ force," he corrects. "As I've said, I'm no general. Stannis is the finest military commander in Westeros. A betting man would put their money on him. As it happens, I am a betting man."

Rose tuts, angrily. "You don't say."

Littlefinger's lips twitch into a smile. "Stannis takes Winterfell, he rescues Sansa from the most despised family in the North. Grateful for your late father's courageous support of his claim, he names you Wardeness of the North."

 _Wardeness of the North_. As much as Rose hates to admit it, it has a nice ring to it. "And if Stannis doesn't attack Winterfell?" she demands. "Or, if the Boltons defeat him?"

"Then, we shall find another way," he replies. "In the meantime, Sansa will take this Bolton boy, Ramsay, and make him hers."

Rose rolls her eyes. "She won't know how."

"Won't she? You've had your share of experience with men," he points out, silkily. "You could teach her how."

Rose's face sets, stonily. "You saved us from the Lannisters, and you think that gives you the right to gamble with my sister's life?" she asks, darkly. "I warned you what would happen."

Slowly, she pushes herself up from the basin, so she's on her feet, the water dripping from her skin and hair. Littlefinger's eyes remain set on hers. "If Sansa gets hurt because of your strategies, I will make you suffer in ways even your calculated little mind cannot imagine," she growls.

Littlefinger nods, unfazed. "The North will be yours," he says. "Lose faith in me, if you must. But, never lose faith in that."

* * *

 **A/N:** I think it's safe to say that Rose is not in a healthy marriage. There is a clear line between love and obsession, and Littlefinger's feelings for her are clearly the latter. The destructiveness of their relationship will be explored in further detail in later chapters.

Good for Rose to respect Sansa's wishes, but is she letting her own ambitions cloud her judgement? Will she compromise everything she believes in — protecting her family, keeping her sister safe — for the sake reclaiming the North?

Enjoy the finale episode of Game of Thrones tonight!


	44. Sons of the Harpy

**Sons of the Harpy**

"Girl or boy, we fight our battles. But the gods let us choose our weapons."

* * *

Rose stands on the ramparts, the wind whipping through her hair. She has managed to salvage some clothes from her old drawers, swapping her crimson dress for fitted breeches and a bronze-coloured tunic covering one of her old, white shirts. She keeps her sword sheathed at her belt, along with the dagger Robb had gifted her. For the first time since they left the Vale, she feels more like herself.

A sudden creak on the ramparts makes her gasp. Her head whips around to see Ramsay approaching her, a sheepish grin on his face. "You scared me," she sighs.

"Apologies, Lady Rose. I didn't mean to disturb you, I only — well, we've never spoken."

Rose frowns, staring out at the vast fields. "What would we speak about?"

"We're to be family, soon," Ramsay says. He looks at her with those eyes; small and oddly pale, like two chips of dirty ice. "I'd like to know more about my future sister."

 _Sister_. The word hits her, squarely in the chest. "There's not much to know."

"Oh, I don't believe that," Ramsay chuckles. He approaches her slowly and stands at her side. "A bastard grows up hearing stories of pretty rich girls they'll never meet. The Mother of Dragons. The Lady of Casterly Rock. The Rose of Winterfell." Glancing at her, a warm smile spreads across his face. "It's rare, indeed, for someone like me to converse with a woman like you."

"You're no longer a bastard," Rose snaps, irritated. "And, you're marrying the most beautiful high-born lady in the world. So, why lament to me when you have everything?"

Ramsay stares at her, then shuffles his feet. "I didn't mean to anger you, My Lady," he says, quietly.

Rose sighs. "No, you — it's not _you_ ," she confesses, feeling guilty. Her gloved hands brush against the wet stone of the ramparts, her fingers curling. "Your father murdered my brother," she says, flatly.

Ramsay's brow furrows. "It would be wrong to judge a man on the doings of his father."

"That's true," Rose whispers. She pauses, then adds, "Sansa means the world to me. Might be the only family I have left."

"I'll never hurt her."

"I know you won't." Rose tries to keep her tone light, but it comes out sharp and pointed. "Your House may hold Winterfell, but there are many Northern lords still loyal to the Starks. Many who served my father when he was their commander. Should they find out his daughter is being mistreated, it would put the Bolton rule into question." She glances at him to see his face has set. "Some might even rise up against you."

Ramsay's jaw clenches, slightly. "With respect, My Lady, those lords you speak of have sworn fealty to me," he says, tersely. "House Stark no longer holds Winterfell."

Rose nods, pondering this. "My father was the most honourable man in Westeros," she muses, softly. "He loved the North, just as the North loved him." Turning, she faces him, their gazes levelled. "And the North always remembers."

Before he can say anything else, she has swept past him, heading back inside of the castle.

* * *

When she goes back to her chambers, she is surprised to see servants removing her luggage, taking it into the hallway. With a frown, she steps in to see Littlefinger folding up his clothes on the bed. "What's going on?" she asks.

"Cersei has summoned me back to King's Landing," he replies. "I'll be delivering you to the Fingers and then heading south." Her mouth opens, but he cuts her off, "If you're prepared to fight me on this, I'll remind you that Cersei hasn't a clue who whisked you out of the capital moments after her son's murder. Should I disregard her orders, she'll start asking questions." He crosses the room towards her, and places his hands, gently on her shoulders. "You understand that, don't you?"

Rose bites down on her lip. "I wanted to be here for the wedding."

"Sansa will manage just fine on her own," Littlefinger assures.

"I promised I wouldn't abandon her ever again," Rose whispers, swallowing back the surfacing tears.

Littlefinger frowns. "Abandon her?" he repeats, perplexed. He chuckles, softly, then cradles her face in his hands. "My love, you're too hard on yourself. Everything that you've done has been in her best interest. Every action you take is to ensure the safety of the people you love. Of the home you cherish. Sansa should be proud of you." His thumb grazes her cheek. "As I am."

Rose sighs, dropping her gaze. Littlefinger smiles and leans in, his lips touching hers. Firmly, she pushes against his chest. He looks at her, half-bewildered, half-irritated, as she turns and leaves the room.

* * *

The crypts are hauntingly the same. Rose walks down the steps, remembering the last time she was here — all those years ago, saying goodbye to her brothers before fleeing Winterfell with Theon. Silently, she wonders whether Hope has succeeded in protecting them. Her beautiful direwolf, with her wise eyes and frightening snarl. To see them again, unscathed, would surely break her in two.

Sansa stands in front of one of the stone statues, the flicker of a candle lighting up her face. She turns when she hears footsteps approaching.

"Knew you'd be down here," Rose says, with a smile. She looks up at the face carved out of stone. "Aunt Lyanna. Father never spoke about her."

"Sometimes, I'd find him down here lighting the candles," Sansa mumbles. "They say she was beautiful."

"She was." Rose studies the careful carving. "Nothing delicate or graceful about her, yet she still surpassed every woman's loveliness. Including Elia Martell's," she adds, with a hint of bitterness. "People called her a wild beauty."

Sansa hums a laugh. "People say the same about you," she teases.

Rose nods, grinning. "I've heard. Mother used to say it was the—"

"—the wolf's blood," Sansa finishes, with a soft laugh that Rose choruses. With a small frown, she glances over her sister. "You're dressed for riding."

Rose sucks in a deep breath and turns to face her. "Cersei sent for Lord Baelish," she explains, stiffly. "He's heading back to King's Landing and taking me to the Fingers."

Sansa's eyes blow wide in horror. "You can't leave me here."

"I don't want to," Rose insists, her chest aching. "If it were up to me, I would stay." When her sister's face falls, she grips onto her hands, tightly. "Listen," she whispers. "I know how difficult it is to live with people you hate. We both do, but it won't be for long."

"How do you know?"

Rose glances over her shoulder, anxiously. "Stannis will be marching south soon enough. He'll defeat the Boltons here, then head to King's Landing to take the Iron Throne. He'll take care of you until Littlefinger returns me North."

"What if you're wrong?" Sansa sighs, frustrated tears in her eyes.

"I'll still come back," Rose promises. "With or without him, and we'll find another way." Gently, she rubs up and down Sansa's arm. "Ramsay won't hurt you. He knows the consequences of doing so. As does his father, and Lord Bolton isn't stupid."

Sansa flinches. "He frightens me."

"He frightens me, too," Rose confesses, with a half-smile. "Even the scariest men can be outwitted."

Sansa frowns, shaking her head. "But, _how_ —?"

"You spent three years of your life in King's Landing," Rose says, candidly. "You know how." Silently astonished at how her little sister came to be so tall, she reaches up and brushes a strand of hair from her face. "You don't need me anymore," she whispers, the reality hitting her, squarely in the chest.

Sansa opens her mouth, then closes it, pursing her lips. The next second, she has thrown herself into Rose's arms, hugging her with ferocity. Rose takes the opportunity of her head over her shoulder to allow a single tear to slide down her cheek. She brushes it away when Sansa pulls apart. "I expect I'll be a married woman by the time you return," she says, laughing, nervously.

Rose forces herself to smile. In her head, she wonders when the goodbyes will stop. If they'll ever stop.

* * *

 **A/N:** I am still reeling from the finale. My heart breaks for Jon, who risked so much to fight "their wars", only to be sent back to the place where he was murdered and betrayed. No one will ever convince me that _that_ was the ending he deserved.

On the bright side, I know exactly how Rose's story is going to end, now that the final season is over! And I'm super excited/nervous to write it.

But, back to current events: Rose clearly has no clue just how dangerous Ramsay is. And, she just pissed him off. Sansa's a big girl now, and a far cry from the girl in King's Landing who needed constant rescuing. BUT, if Rose hears that Ramsay has been abusing her, how do you expect her to react? What will be her first instinct, and will she act on it?


	45. Kill the Boy

**A/N:** contains graphic sexual content and mild violence.

* * *

 **Kill the Boy**

"Kill the boy, and the let the man be born."

* * *

The forest darkens as the sun begins to set, and closer and closer to the Fingers they ride. Littlefinger and Rose lead the front of the procession, each on horseback. The knights trail, silently behind them, the only sounds coming from the birds above the canopy and the hooves on the mud ground.

"Lady Brienne said that Renly Baratheon was murdered by a shadow," Rose says, abruptly.

Littlefinger sneers. "A shadow with the face of his brother, Stannis, to be exact. What of it?"

"You didn't believe her."

"Did you?" Littlefinger asks, glancing at her. She stares back at him and shrugs. "Shadows are stories."

"All stories came from somewhere," Rose points out. She feels him watching her, so she gallops a few steps ahead of him, keeping her eyes fixated on the treeline. "Maester Luwin studied magic," she says, remembering. "Only one in every handful of maesters bother to do so."

"Why do you think he did that?"

Rose's brow knits together. "To broaden his mind, I suppose."

"Or, to earn a Valyrian steel link for his chain," Littlefinger counters. She tilts her head to give him a look, and he peers back at her, curious. "Why the sudden fascination with the make-believe?"

"Just making conversation." Rose sucks in a rigid breath, clenching onto the reins. "Trying to distract myself from the fact I just left my little sister in the hands of men who murdered our family." A fresh wave of guilt slams into her, making her shudder. At her side, Littlefinger lets out a chuckle, startling her. Her head whips around, glaring. "Is that funny to you?"

Littlefinger tries to compose himself, but a small smile remains on his lips. "You spend a lot of time condemning yourself for things out of your control," he muses.

Rose frowns. "Abandoning her wasn't out of my control. It was a choice. The _wrong_ choice," she adds, in a mutter.

"You had no say in the matter," Littlefinger says, glibly. "I am your husband. I asked you to leave. You did as I asked because you are my wife."

Immediately Rose pivots her horse in front of his. Littlefinger jerks his reins back in surprise, staring at her, confusedly. "That's why you think I did it?" Rose exclaims, as the knights slow to a halt behind them. " _Blind obedience_? If I wanted to turn my horse around and ride back to Winterfell without you, I would!"

"So, what's stopping you?" Littlefinger asks. She opens her mouth to respond, but no words come out. He smirks, smugness creeping into his tone. "You left with me because it is your duty. To respect your husband's commands."

"Another reason why you tricked me into marrying you," Rose snaps. "So, I'd have no choice but to compliantly follow your orders. Didn't anyone ever tell you? Try to put a leash on a wolf, it'll bite your hand off." Huffing, furiously, she turns her horse back around and gallops ahead of him, further into the forest.

* * *

By the time they reach the Fingers, it has started to rain.

Rose draws her hood over her head, looking up at the old flint tower with a wrinkled nose. _Hardly a great castle for a lord and his lady._ Littlefinger takes her hand and leads her up the rocky steps to the oak doors, as the knights dismount their horses and begin to set up camp outside. He takes her inside, the servants holding their luggage bustling after them, murmuring directions to one another.

Rose falters in the modest hall, glancing around her with a small sigh. "Drearfort, indeed," she mumbles.

Littlefinger's hand finds her back. "This way." He gestures to the staircase. Grimacing, Rose removes her hood and follows him, up to the Lord's Chambers.

The room itself is nicer than the rest of the tower; the fire burns in the hearth, the enormous canopy bed draped in pelts and plumped with goose-feather pillows. There's a small stack of books resting near the desk, and a large wardrobe covering one side of the stone wall. Rose looks around her, removing her damp cloak and setting it down on the bed.

"Is there anything you need?" Littlefinger asks, watching her from the doorway. She ignores him. He purses her lips, fiddling with the cuffs of his coat. "How about a bath? And some wine."

Rose doesn't even look at him, relieved when she hears his footsteps retreating.

* * *

" _A coat of gold, a coat of red . . . a lion still has claws . . . and mine are long and sharp, My Lord . . . as long and sharp as yours_ ," she sings, the idle sound drifting through the room, chiming with the fierce wind whipping against the window. " _And so, he spoke, and so he spoke, that Lord of Castamere . . . and now the rains weep o'er his halls . . . with no one there to hear_."

Littlefinger's lips twitch into a smile. "The Rains of Castamere."

"Hmh." Rose hums a laugh, staring upwards at the canopy. "They say it was playing at the Red Wedding," she says, flatly. Her words slur as the wine makes her head reel. "Before Roose drove a knife through my brother's heart. Before they cut my mother's throat and tossed her body, naked into the river. Leaving it to rot, along with my family name."

The fireplace snaps, noisily in the hearth. "If the Boltons kill Sansa, I'll be all alone," she whispers, her eyes prickling. "Everything that I've done to save my family will be for nothing." A strange, strangled laugh catches in her throat. "I'm sure they'll write songs about that, too."

She hears Littlefinger sigh and get to his feet, the sound of his approaching boots. "If I knew the wine would cause you to mourn—"

"The wine?" Rose repeats. She springs upwards into a sitting position on the bed. He stands in front of her, watching as she cups her aching forehead in her palm. "I mourn, always," she hisses, drunkenly. "When I think, when I sleep, when I breathe, I _mourn_. I'm a daughter, without any parents. I'm a sister, without any siblings."

"You're also a wife," Littlefinger says, softly, cradling her face in his hands. "With a husband who cares very much about your wellbeing."

Rose scowls, batting him away and leaping to her feet. "You don't care about me," she snaps. "You care about _yourself_. You care about marrying the heir to the North and furthering your position. You care about putting a son in the Lady of Winterfell."

Something flashes in his eyes. Frustrated, he turns and heads back to the table, pouring himself another glass of wine. Rose follows him, a rage bubbling inside of her, and not knowing where it comes from. "She's here, My Lord," she whispers, venomously. "Will you be putting a son in her tonight?"

Littlefinger turns, irritated. "Rose."

"You've been so eager." She pushes, hard against his chest. He staggers backward, falling down, into the chair. His eyes blow wide in confusion as she mounts his lap and clumsily fidgets with his belt. "What's the matter?"

"The both of us have had too much wine," Littlefinger points out, sternly, and she can, indeed, smell it on his breath. Rose ignores him and tries to shove her hand down his trousers. He grips her wrist, tightly. "That's _enough_ , my love." There's an edge to his tone, now.

Rose glares, right into his eyes. "If it helps, you could close your eyes and pretend I'm my mother," she spits before she can stop herself. "That's what you do when you fuck me, isn't it?"

Littlefinger's face sets. When her hands move back to his trousers, he grips her upper arm, making Rose gasp from the sudden gush of pain. Then, he slaps her across the face. She almost falls off his lap, but his hold keeps her steady. A dull throbbing pulsates in her cheek.

Her teeth clenched, Rose tries to shrug out of his grasp, but he holds onto her, firmly. Her hands thump at his chest, the anger inside of her diminishing with each strike, bucking against him like a wild animal.

Without warning, Littlefinger gets to his feet and half-carries, half-drags her over to the bed, while she continues to wrestle against him. He slams her back against the bed, knocking the breath out of her, his hand holding her face, fingers squeezing. His eyes, cold and blue, penetrate hers, furious and challenging. Rose glares back at him, panting, waiting.

He does nothing else. Bracing herself, she twists around and leans over the bed. Her flushed face buries in the soft wolf pelts. She reaches behind and yanks up her nightdress, all the way over her back. She can hear Littlefinger unbuckling his belt.

 _If this doesn't make me feel better, nothing will_.

Then, he pushes himself inside of her. The sudden entry, the mix of pain and adrenaline, makes her cry out through her gritted teeth, and she clutches the wolf pelts, tightly with her fists.

One of his hands grips her hip, tight enough to bruise. The second presses against the back of her neck, pinning her against the bed. He rams into her with sharp, hard thrusts, his breathing laboured. Rose closes her eyes, tightly. _Pretend it's Theon. You'll enjoy it if you pretend it's him._ It doesn't work, not in the slightest.

Littlefinger's hips slam against hers, quickening. Then, just like that, it's over. Rose swallows back the bile as he hunches over her, catching his breath. She lies still, feeling his hand against her back.

Finally, he pulls out of her and steps away, leaving her feeling cold. Quickly, she rights her nightgown and climbs onto the bed, keeping her back to him. _If I look at him, I'll be sick. I know I will._

She hears him sigh. Then, he leaves the room.

Rose exhales in relief at the sound of the door shutting. Slowly, her body aching, she draws her knees up to her chest. Her fingers curl, instinctively, around the soft wolf pelts beneath her. It makes her think of Robb. And her father. A small, helpless sniffle escapes her, and she has to bite down on her lip to stop herself from sobbing like a child.

That doesn't work, either.

* * *

 **A/N:** If you weren't sure whether Littlefinger and Rose's relationship is INSANELY toxic, hopefully you're pretty positive now. Now that he knows she's stuck with him forever, and there's not much she can do about it, his true colours are starting to show. That was not a pleasant chapter to write. But, this is how Rose deals with guilt (sex, drink, lashing out), and Littlefinger was 100% wrong to take advantage/retaliate the way he did.

However, he is heading to King's Landing, now! How will Rose cope with being on her own? Will she be grateful to see him leave, or miserable on her lonesome?


	46. Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken

**A/N:** contains violence.

* * *

 **Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken**

"When you were whole, it would have been a good fight."

* * *

The tower is awfully quiet without Littlefinger around. Rose spends most of her time in bed, reading and re-reading the same books. At night, she'll drink whatever wine she can find in the hope that it will ward off the nightmares — it normally doesn't.

During the day, she polishes Redthorn and practices with the instructor Littlefinger hired for her; a man, Ser Ignacius, who grew up in Dorne. Far less gentle and encouraging than Ser Gunther, but on the bright side, her skills have improved, immeasurably.

One day, after hours of batting swords at one another, he finally dismisses her. Rose staggers towards the table in the hall, breathless, sweating and covered in bruises. Each swing of her sword releases a fresh wave of anger that has been clouding her judgement ever since she left Winterfell. Every time she remembers that night between her and Littlefinger, the night before he left, she feels like clawing his eyes out.

If drinking has that sort of effect on her, she'll never damn well drink around him again.

A girl, not much older than her, with a wealth of auburn curls tied away from her face and bright, blue eyes, pours her a glass of water from the pitcher. "Well done, M'Lady," she says, brightly. Rose looks at her, surprised. Her gaze darts up to meets hers, and her cheeks turn pink. "You're gifted, is what I mean."

Rose chuckles, breathlessly. "If you think that was good, you should see my brother with a sword in his hand."

The girl smiles, warmly. "Did he teach you how to fight?"

Rose swallows the water from her cup in three, large gulps. "No." She pats her sword, sheathed in her belt. "My husband gave this to me. He had me train with the Master-at-Arms in the Eyrie." She spots the girl eyeing her Valyrian steel blade with curiosity. With a grin, Rose yanks it from her belt and holds it out, the metal glinting. "Redthorn, she's called."

The girl looks at it, a wide smile spreading across her face. Timidly, she takes it, the balance causing her hands to droop. "A blade with a name," she muses. "You wield it like you've been doing it your whole life."

Rose peers at her, sheathing the sword again. "What's your name?"

"Loreena, M'Lady."

Rose nods, softly. "It's good to meet you, Loreena."

The two share a small smile before a clattering sound erupts from the kitchen. Loreena jumps and, sheepishly, hurries through the doors, carrying the pitcher of water with her.

* * *

Rose lies, stomach down on the bed, reading intently. A knock on the door makes her look up. In walks Loreena, with her friendly smile, carrying a tray of food in her hands. "Dinner, M'Lady."

"Thank you." Rose shuts the book and climbs off the bed, crossing the room. She watches Loreena as she sets the tray down, picking up the plate and setting it on the table. "You're from the North, aren't you?" she says. Loreena blinks, startled. Swallowing, she nods her head. "How did you end up here?"

She pauses, thinking. "Someone needed me," she murmurs. "Someone important." Looking up, she stares back at Rose, contemplative. Then, she seems to shake herself out of her thoughts. "Would you like some wine?"

Rose grimaces. "Best not."

"It's from Ser Ignacius. He ships it in from Dorne, and Dornish wine is supposedly the best."

Rose bites down on her lower lip. "Oh, alright," she sighs, shaking her head at herself. "One cup won't hurt."

Loreena giggles, mischievously, and skips out of the room. Rose glances down at the tray of food: pigeon pie, with a small plate of honey cakes for pudding, and a cup of mead. Her stomach rumbling, she goes to sit down, when there's another knock at her door. She frowns, glancing up. That was quick.

Crossing the room, she goes to open the door, her hand closing around the bronze handle. She turns it.

She barely catches a glimpse of the man standing on the other side, when he slams the door into her. Pain explodes across her shoulder and she is sent, flying backwards to the floor with a sickening thud. He grabs his dagger, whipping it out of his belt, but Rose is quicker. Her leg thrashing out, her boot connects with the attacker's wrist. He lets out a pained yelp, the dagger flying out of his hand and clattering to the floor.

Quickly, Rose grabs the beech training stick resting against her chair and strikes it across the back of his legs. He stumbles a little, and she leaps to her feet, swinging it towards him again. He catches it this time, but she lifts her free elbow and rams it into his nose, blood instantly spewing from him.

Her heart hammering, she sprints past him, heading for the door. The attacker recovers too quickly, and lashes out, his arm locking around her neck in a choke-hold. Rose cries out when she feels her throat constricting. Desperately, her legs flailing, she uses all of her strength to drive her elbow into his ribs, but he drags her backwards, his arm tightening around her neck. _I can't breathe . . . I can't breathe . . ._

Rose thrusts against him, the sound of the mirror shattering when his back slams against it. Her hand claws at his, scratching his flesh hard enough to draw blood, prying his arm away. He lets out a low growl through his gritted teeth as she rolls out of his grip. The air gushes back into her lungs, making her throat burn. Clenching her fist, she punches him, straight in the groin, causing him to buckle over.

This time, Rose makes a run for her sword. _It's under the bed, right next to the belt . . . if you reach it—_

He recovers, again, too quickly. He yanks the back of her hair, making her shriek, and hurls her against the stone wall. She feels the skin breaking on the side of her face, blood wetting it as she collapses to the ground. The pain makes her dizzy. Frantically, she scrambles backwards, away from him as he advances on her.

Then, he climbs on top of her, crushing her lungs, his hands going to circle around her neck. Rose wrestles and screams beneath him, the blood roaring in her ears, but he's too strong, pinning her down.

Her legs go upwards, wrapping around his neck and squeezing with all her might. Just as his face starts to turn purple, he picks her up and slams her, hard, back onto the ground. Stars appear in front of her vision, the pain too excruciating to comprehend. Her limbs seem to numb, blackness creeping in.

She cries out when his hands close around her neck, crushing it with his hands. _He's going to kill me. Gods, he's going to kill me_. In one last futile attempt, her hands scratch, feebly at his, trying to claw them away. Her head feels like it's about to burst.

There's a flash of silver, which bites across the attacker's neck. Blood spews from him, as Loreena draws the dagger away. His hands release Rose, who chokes and splutters on the air that fills her. Loreena gives him a hard kick, and he topples sideways, collapsing onto the carpet.

Rose squints as her vision clears. Loreena stands over her, grim determination on her face. Quickly, she kneels down and hoists her upwards into a sitting position. "It's alright, M'Lady," she soothes, rubbing her back as she continues to cough through gasps for breath. "You're alright."

Rose stares back at her, wide-eyed. "When did you—?" she gasps. " _Who_ was—?"

Though her head rings with pain, she gets up, onto her knees, and looks down at the corpse of her attacker. The blood spewing from his neck stains the floor. "M'Lady, we should get you someplace safe," Loreena is saying, but she ignores her.

Instead, Rose's hand closes around the curved dagger which had been intended for her own throat. Picking it up, she swivels it around to look at the sigil engraved in the hilt.

Her stomach flips as her thumb grazes over the harsh carving of a red, flayed man.

* * *

 **A/N:** Thoughts on Loreena? Is there more to her than meets the eye?


	47. The Gift

**The Gift**

"The past is the past; the future is all that is worth discussing."

* * *

The door creaks open.

Rose looks up, wringing her hands as Loreena enters the room. Her eyes remain fixed on the floor. A breakfast tray is balanced in her hands, which are still raw from scrubbing the blood from the floorboards. She sets it down on the table, then turns to leave the room.

"Who are you?"

Loreena stops. "M'Lady?"

"I saw the look in your eyes when you killed that man," Rose croaks, her throat still hurting. At times, she can still feel his hands around her neck. Ignoring the pain, she sits up in the bed. "You didn't feel any remorse. Like it was the most unremarkable thing you'd ever done."

Loreena blinks, swallowing. "He tried to kill you, M'Lady. I was only—"

"No," Rose snaps, wincing at the pain it causes her. "I am _sick_ of people lying to me. Hiding their intentions behind pretty words and declarations of duty. Tell me who you are," she commands, her eyes penetrating hers. Across the room, the maid gapes back at her, opening and closing her mouth like a goldfish. Rose sighs, softening. "Is Loreena your real name?"

"Yes," she replies, quietly.

"And, you're truly from the North?"

Loreena nods. She takes a deep breath and slowly approaches the bed. "A woman, Lady Brienne, she sent me here to look out for you," she explains, shakily. "She was worried you might be in danger, with Littlefinger. I posed as a scullery maid so he would bring me here."

Rose's eyes narrow.

 _Brienne of Tarth. That woman is tenacious._

"What are you, really?" she asks.

Loreena smiles a half-smile. "A woman good with a sword, I suppose." She lifts her chin, her face setting. "I was sent here because someone important needed me. You."

Boldly, she sits down at Rose's bedside, looking her, squarely in the eye. "You're the true Lady of Winterfell. Everyone in the North knows it. If you tell me I'm hiding behind declarations of duty, then so be it. I _do_ have a duty to the North, same as you. We all do. Right now, it's in the hands of those monsters who butchered your family at the Red Wedding." She sucks in a sudden breath, her chin quivering. "And mine, too," she finishes, in a broken whisper.

Rose feels a lump forming in her throat. Guiltily, her attention swivels back to the stained floorboards. "Lord Bolton sent that assassin," she murmurs. "He must have followed us here from Winterfell."

"Why?"

Rose squirms against the pillows, her battered body aching in protest. "If I die, Sansa is the rightful heir to the North. Sansa marries his son, making his claim stronger. The Northern lords would follow him without question if they believe all the other Starks are dead." She shakes her head, disgusted. "They won't have a choice."

Loreena frowns, thinking. They sit in silence for a short while, wrapped up in their own thoughts.

"Ever since my father was killed, I have been so, completely alone," Loreena says, eventually. "I've lived in taverns, I've lived in the streets, and everywhere I go, people talk. About the Red Wedding, and the Freys, and the Boltons." Her voice turns bitter, but she takes a breath to steady herself. "They sing songs for your family, for House Stark. Praying for even the dimmest of lights in a blackened realm. That one day, Ned Stark's bastard will descend from Castle Black to meet the Boltons on an open field and slaughter every turncoat that betrayed his family. That the Rose of Winterfell will return to take her rightful place as Wardeness of the North. That she'll rule with the same honour and grace as her father."

Loreena's narrow, blue eyes shine with tears. "Your people have suffered," she whispers. "They've lost so much that they've fallen silent. But, they've already chosen, Lady Stark. They choose you. A thousand times over, they'll choose _you_."

Rose cannot find the words to say, but the tremendous surge of sadness and courage makes her eyes sting, and her throat burn. Not trusting herself to speak, she nods, staring down at the wolf pelts covering her bed.

* * *

Late into the evening, Rose makes her way down into the kitchens, bare feet padding on the stones, a gown covering her nightdress. She finds her scullery maid standing there, her back to the door, eyes fixated on a piece of crumpled paper in her hand. "Loreena?"

She gasps, spinning around. Her eyes are wide and frightened, like a deer. "Oh," she breathes. "Your dinner, I — apologies, M'Lady. I'll fetch the cooks."

"There's no rush." Rose watches as she shoves the parchment into her apron, her hands trembling. "Is something the matter?" she asks, cautiously. Loreena blinks, looking lost for words. "You can tell me."

She sighs, uneasily. "I don't want to upset you, Lady Rose," she whispers. She sucks in a breath as Rose steps further into the room, a worried frown on her face. "Your sister . . . the Northern lords fear that Ramsay has been — that he's been mistreating her," she explains, seeming to measure her words, carefully.

Rose's insides twist into knots. Suddenly, it's difficult to breathe. For a while, she says nothing. Until the question splutters from her lips, "Mistreating her . . . how?"

Loreena gazes back at her, lips set in a grim line. Her eyes say everything. The look on Rose's face sends her staggering forwards. "M'Lady, it might just be gossip."

"How far is Brienne from the castle?" Rose croaks.

"In a winter town, just beyond Cerwyn."

"You're taking me to her. You're taking me North." She turns, heading back towards the stairs. Her legs wobble beneath her.

 _This_ _is my fault. Oh, gods, forgive me, this is all my fault._

Loreena goes after her. "Lady Rose, you can't—"

"There is a big difference between what I can't and shouldn't do!" Rose screeches, whirling back around, eyes blazing. She's filled to the brim with a painful mixture of anguish and fury. "My sister needs me. I'm going to her, and you _will_ take me."

"Brienne has already sent her a message," Loreena insists, struggling to keep calm. "If Sansa is in trouble, truly in trouble, she will send a signal. M'Lady, please . . . _think_ about this," she begs.

Rose shakes her head, tears prickling her eyes. "I'm the big sister. I'm supposed to be the one who can fix everything, and I can't do it while I'm sitting here in the miserable tower!"

"No good can come from recklessness."

"Yes, it can," she snaps. "I can save my sister, or die trying." Angrily, she brushes the hair out of her flushing face. "I know that castle better than anyone. I _lived_ there, I grew up there. I've escaped it once before. Breaking in can't be much different."

"If you die, then we're lost," Loreena protests, desperately. "The North is lost. Every prayer, every hope." She closes her eyes, taking a steadying breath. When she opens them again, they are filled with tears. "Lady Rose, this isn't wise."

"I've never claimed to be the wisest." Rose closes the distance between them, fixing her with an intent look. "You told me the Northerners expect me to rule with the same virtues my father possessed. He taught me the importance of taking responsibility for the things I did wrong, and to never compromise my honour." Tears slide down her cheeks, a powerful ache filling her chest. "All I can think about is how disappointed he would be in me if he knew I left my sister in the hands of those monsters," she whispers.

Loreena grimaces. "The North needs a saviour. Not a martyr."

"And what _will_ the North think of me if I turn my back on my family when they need me the most?" Rose demands. "What kind of saviour am I then?" She bites down, anxiously on her lip. "I'll go by myself if I have to, but I want — I _need_ your help if I'm going to survive."

Loreena sighs, frustrated. After a silent moment, she nods her head, curtly. "And how do you propose we get past your husband's guards?"

* * *

 **A/N:** Silly, silly Rose . . . is she heading for serious trouble?


	48. Hardhome

**Hardhome**

"I'm not going to stop the wheel. I'm going to break the wheel."

* * *

Night has never fallen so slowly.

Rose dons her riding breeches and sheathes her sword, which is kept, firmly belted against her hip, right beside her brother's dagger. She wraps a cloak around her shoulders and slips on a pair of gloves, her hands trembling in anticipation. Although the air is oddly humid, she continues to shake like a leaf as she waits.

A small knock on her door makes her jump. Turning, she sees Loreena enter the room. Her face is set, her hair braided away from it, dressed in riding clothes. Rose can see the glint of a sword against her belt. "There are guards stationed outside the tower doors, but none around the exterior," she says, tensely. "We'll head for the stables and fetch the horses."

"Then, what?"

Loreena shrugs. "Then, we ride like our lives depend on it. Have you finished it?"

Rose heads to the bed and picks up the endless stream of fabrics, torn from some of her old dresses, knotted and knitted together to form a long, bulky rope. Loreena notices her shaking hands, and looks her, squarely in the eyes. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

Rose's jaw clenches. "No one hurts my family and gets away with it," she says, firmly. "Not anymore."

Loreena gazes back at her, still frowning, but nods her head. She takes the fabrics from Rose's hands and hurries towards the window, pushing it open with her elbow. The cold air whistles through, making the fire rustle in the hearth.

She tosses the fabric down, and Rose can hear the soft pad as it touches the damp grass ground. Tightly, she ties it around the bottom of the sturdy bedpost, knotting it as much as she can.

Positioning herself, swinging her legs over the window ledge, she turns back to give Rose a warning look. "Wait for my signal," she orders. "Don't come down until I tell you to. Understand me?"

Rose nods, swallowing. She watches as Loreena disappears over the window, the fabric stretching. Rose looks over the side of it, peering through the darkness, seeing her auburn head bobbing towards the ground. She instantly feels giddy, looking down, miles and miles beneath the window . . .

Sucking in a breath, she squeezes her eyes shut. _If Wildlings can climb the Wall, then I can climb out of a bloody flint tower._

Minutes later, a low whistle echoes in the wind. Rose glances over the ledge to see Loreena at the bottom, on the ground. She has her sword drawn, her head tilted upwards, beckoning to her.

 _This is it_.

Mustering all her courage, Rose puts her hands against the window ledge, her heart hammering against her ribs. Balancing herself, she swings one leg around, clasping onto the fabric. _You can do this_. She takes a long second to brace herself. Then, she swings her other leg around and drops down.

The fabric stretches, but her feet plant, firmly against the stone tower, stopping her from smacking into it. A relieved, strangled laugh escapes her, but she presses her lips shut when she hears Loreena shushing her from below.

Steadily, her entire body trembling, Rose eases herself down the binding. _Don't look down, don't look down . . . whatever you do, do not look down_. It gets easier, the closer she feels herself approaching the ground. Her fists clench the fabrics so rigidly, her knuckles turn white.

Her mind drifts, trying to distract herself. _Think of Sansa. And honey cakes. Think of Theon. And silk dresses, and wolf pelts, and her beautiful Valyrian steel sword—_

Hands grab her hips. She lets out a startled cry, but then the ground is beneath Rose's feet. She stumbles, her head reeling, almost toppling to the floor. But, Loreena's steady hands hold her up. "You're alright," she whispers, bemused. "Well done, M'Lady."

Rose releases the binding, feeling the blood rushing back into her fingers. "Can we do that again?" she finds herself asking, and smiles when Loreena laughs out loud.

A clanging noise, coming from the front of the tower silences both of them. Rose feels her blood running cold. Wordlessly, Loreena clasps her hand and drags her up the hill's slope, towards the stables. She races after her, their feet light against the grass.

Glancing over her shoulder, Rose spots two guards standing directly outside the tower's doors, but are too immersed in their own conversation to see them, especially in the darkness.

The night is hidden by clouds, save for the full moon peeking through, like a great china orb against the black. Mist covers their feet and ankles the further up the hill they go. The stables seat at the top of the slope, small and shabby. Two horses are tied up, outside of it already; one a murky grey colour, the other with black spots covering its belly.

Rose grabs ahold of the grey one, running her hand down its snout, gently. When it bucks into her touch, she grins and climbs onto it. Loreena runs her sword through the rope that binds it, then mounts her own horse.

Exchanging fearful smiles, the girls ride into the blackness of the forest.

* * *

The sun begins to rise over the treeline. Every now and then, Rose peeks over her shoulder, searching the forest for signs of approaching guards. No one comes their way.

Loreena frowns. "What is it?"

"It feels almost too easy," Rose murmurs, grimacing. "How we managed to escape."

Loreena grins. "Your husband clearly underestimated your nerve. Had he known you'd run off to be the hero, he would have guarded you far better."

Rose lifts an eyebrow, unable to resist feeling smug. "He should have taken me back to the Vale. We wouldn't have made it past the Bloody Gate, with an army like that protecting me."

Loreena tilts her head to look at her. "That's why you married him? For his army?" Almost instantly, her cheeks turn pink. She laughs, nervously. "Forgive me, M'lady, I didn't mean to pry."

"Yes, you did," Rose counters, with a wry smile. She remains silent for a moment, then confesses, "I married him because I was desperate. The North is where I'm safe. Where my family belongs. I'd do anything to get us back there." She swallows, thickly. "I let my misery cloud my judgement. Not that it matters." Her hands tighten around the reins. "If the rumours are true, if Lord Baelish truly sold my sister to a tyrant . . . I'd die before going back to him."

Loreena stares at her. "Where will you go?"

Rose shrugs. "I have a brother at Castle Black."

"Jon Snow," Loreena muses, smiling. "Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, now." Turning, she realises Rose's horse has faltered in its tracks. She sits a distance away from her, eyes wide in surprise. "I thought you knew."

Rose blinks, then begins galloping again. "Another secret my husband has been keeping," she mumbles.

Loreena continues to watch her from the corner of her eye. "You shouldn't be so hard on yourself. If we judged ourselves for all the mistakes we've made with the men in our lives, none of us would get a moment's peace."

Rose chews on her lower lip. "If Sansa and I get to Jon, the Boltons won't be able to touch us," she says, quietly. "Let alone Littlefinger. But, Winterfell will still be out of reach. I lose Littlefinger, I lose his army." She shakes her head, bitterly. "Marriage really is the perfect trap."

Loreena's mouth twitches into a small smile. "Marry for love, next time."

Rose frowns, bemused. "Next time?"

"Should something awful befall your husband," Loreena replies, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "Next time . . ."

Rose stares back at her, then laughs, bewilderedly.

* * *

 **A/N:** Will Rose make it to Brienne? Will she make it North at all?


	49. The Dance of Dragons

**The Dance of Dragons**

"Sometimes a person must choose. Sometimes, the world forces his hand. If a man knows what he is and remains true to himself, the choice is no choice at all. He must fulfil his destiny, and become who he is meant to be. However much he may hate it."

* * *

Rose releases her fingers. The arrow shoots from the bow, streaming past the tree trunk and disappearing into the shrubbery. She groans, stomping her foot. Loreena chuckles. "Shut up," she protests.

Loreena smirks. "You're thinking too much."

"Do recent events support that theory?" Rose demands, but she can't resist a smile.

"Look." Loreena hands her another arrow, which she nocks, then stands at her side. "Don't think about the release." Gently, she lifts Rose's arms and adjusts them into the right position, drawing the string back. "Focus only on the aim."

She steps back. Rose does as she says, staring directly ahead at the crooked, moss-covered bark of the tree in front of her. Her fingers begin to ache, rubbing against the bowstring.

"Deep breath," Loreena instructs. "And . . ."

Rose exhales, then releases. The arrow nicks the tree, but flies straight past it, disappearing again.

"You're getting better," Loreena insists.

Rose sighs, handing the bow back to her. Together, they head back over to their small fire, burning on the ground. "If Theon were here, he'd be taunting me mercilessly," she says, with a soft chuckle. "He's formidable with a longbow in hand."

Loreena sits down on the tree stump, picking up the half-skinned rabbit and putting it on her lap. She frowns, suddenly. "Theon as in . . . the turncloak?"

Rose blinks. The words had slipped out before she could think them over — half the North still long to see him hanged for his crimes. Swallowing, she nods. "Theon as in my father's ward." She sits down, opposite Loreena, and begins tossing sticks into the fire.

"I was sorry when I heard what happened at Winterfell. The Ironborn's attack."

"All in the past," Rose insists, her stomach twisting.

Loreena lifts an eyebrow. "Half the North still believes your brothers are dead."

Rose grimaces. "Theon killed two farm boys and strung up their bodies, telling everyone they were Bran and Rickon," she explains, quietly. "He wouldn't have had the heart to kill them. Not really. They're his brothers. His _true_ brothers."

Loreena gazes at her. "You care for him?"

"Very much." Rose fidgets with one of the twigs, running her thumb along its rough surface. "Do you have someone?" she asks, curiously.

"A man?" Loreena exclaims. "No." She shakes her head, her smile fading as her eyes dart to the ground. "After my mother died, I was all my father had left. Refused to leave him. He was the only one who understood how badly it hurt when she was—" she cuts herself off, going still. Then, she seems to shake away her thoughts, running her sharpened blade across the rabbit. "I guess, I just missed my mother."

Rose hums a laugh. "I know the feeling."

Loreena's brow furrows together. She picks up a long stick and runs it through the rabbit, kneeling on the ground to prop it over the fire. "My father used to take me to the castle when I was little," she says, softly. "Your mother was there, sometimes. Standing in the courtyard, or on the walkway, with your father. Everyone used to say how beautiful she was."

"She was," Rose whispers, thinking about her auburn hair and Tully blue eyes. "Very." She watches the rabbit being turned, slowly over the fire, the flames scarcely licking it. "I used to think I was nothing like her," she muses. "She was dutiful, and clever, and fierce. Too fierce, at times. I was so sweet, and so _tame_ compared to her." A small chuckle escapes her, but it dies on her lips almost instantly. "Then, my family was torn apart, right down the middle. Only then, when I was forced to fight, did I realise how much I'm truly like her."

Loreena sticks back, leaning against the tree stump. "Blood runs thick in Starks."

Rose grins. _Yes, it damn well does._

* * *

Days pass between riding and stopping to rest. The further they travel, the more the forest turns from masses of thick greenery to murky swamp. The ground covers in huge flowers, snakes trailing along the ground and up the trees, which are half-drowned and coated in fungus.

"We're at the Neck," Rose says.

Loreena stops riding, pointing ahead of her. "Moat Cailin should be just beyond there. We'll have to take the Kingsroad." She turns to see Rose biting her lip, anxiously. "Unless you'd rather wade through a bottomless swamp?"

Rose arches an eyebrow. "Fair point."

Their horses pivot, moving around the endless stream of swamp. The road ahead of them is a narrow causeway, which seems to run on, endlessly. Their horses graze one another as they ride, side by side.

"Does Brienne know we're coming?" Rose asks.

Loreena shakes her head, grimly. "I couldn't trust the information to a raven. Not to worry. I know where she'll be."

Rose lets out a sigh. "Littlefinger will have heard of my escape, by now," she murmurs. "He'll have sent his guards north to pluck me out."

"There are miles between us and the Fingers," Loreena points out. "We'll get to Winterfell by the week's end."

Rose nods, staring down at the reins clasped in her hands. "I wish there was a way to let Sansa know we're coming," she says, quietly. An uncomfortable lump forms in her throat. "Can't imagine how frightened she must be."

Loreena smiles, gently. "You're a good sister, M'lady."

"I should never have left her there," Rose continues, as though she hadn't spoken. "I left her once before, in King's Landing. Went to Winterfell, got myself captured." She laughs, hollowly, but the reality of the situation hits her, squarely in the chest. "Now, here I am, heading back to the castle to face down my enemies. Not learning from my mistakes."

"This time is different."

Rose tilts her head, frowning. "How so?"

Loreena smiles, warmly. "You have me. I won't let you down, Lady Rose."

Although fear continues to course through her, Rose finds herself smiling. It's been an awfully long time since she's had a true friend.

* * *

 **A/N:** Final chapter for Season Five tomorrow!


	50. Mother's Mercy

**A/N:** contains strong violence.

* * *

 **Mother's Mercy**

"If I'm going to die, let it happen while there's still some of me left."

* * *

The ground turns from grass to snow, their horses slowing as they climb the slope.

"How far from here?" Rose asks.

"Not far." Loreena's horse stops, abruptly beneath her. "Not far at all."

Rose reaches the top of the hill. The breath leaves her body as she looks out, at the horizon. The castle seems bigger than she remembers, blanketed in the snow, it's great, grey stones peeking through. _We made it. We actually made it._

"If your sister is in trouble, she'll light a candle in the Broken Tower," Loreena explains, her breath creating warm fog in the crisp air. "Brienne and Podrick are waiting in the Wolfswood for her signal."

Rose grimaces as a burning scent fills her nostrils. "Can you smell smoke?"

Loreena frowns. Their heads turn towards the mass of snow-covered woods resting outside of Winterfell. Smoke billows up from the treetops, and there's the distant sound of boots thundering against the ground. Rose squints, catching glimpses of the banners flashing against the pure, white snow — a crowned black stag enclosed within the fiery, red heart of the Lord of Light.

"That's the Baratheon sigil," Rose murmurs. Her eyes blow wide in realisation. "Littlefinger said that Stannis would be marching North to take Winterfell. If he succeeds—"

"He'll save your sister," Loreena finishes.

"Ramsay will march his forces out to meet them on the field. If he's distracted with the battle, we can get to Sansa."

Loreena shakes her head. "Not necessarily. The Boltons may hole up in the castle and wait them out. There's no need for bloodshed if the Baratheon forces die of cold or starvation."

Rose bites down on her lower lip. Across the field, she can see the army beginning to march out, smears of black and grey against the white snow. Not nearly enough of them to match the Bolton forces. "We find Brienne," she says, clenching the reins. "Then, we'll work out our next move."

Loreena nods, briskly. "As you command, M'lady."

Together, they pivot their horses and race down the slope, heading for the woods.

* * *

Loreena and Rose gallop through the Wolfswood, searching their surroundings for a sign of gleaming armour and golden-white hair. Brienne is nowhere to be found. Rose can feel her heart hammering a faster rhythm in her chest, the longer they look.

Eventually, they make it to the mouth of the woods. "I don't understand," Loreena cries, sounding frantic. "She should be right here."

Winterfell is closer than ever, now. Rose stares at it, her heart plummeting when her eyes dart to the Broken Tower. A candle, small, but bright, burns in the window. Even from this distance, she can see the flash of redness in Sansa's hair, peeking out from underneath a hood. Half relieved, half anguished, a strangled laugh escapes her.

It dies the moment a horn blows out, the trees rustling above them.

"Loreena," Rose whispers.

She follows Rose's gaze, out into the mass of snowy fields. Clear as day, they can see the armies charging at one another. The Bolton forces, in all their glory, against the bumbling mess that is Stannis's army. Some of the rearguard even turn and flee, back towards the woods.

"You were right," Loreena gasps.

Rose watches in mild horror as the vanguards clash. Right at the front, she can see him — the wildness in his dirty blue eyes as he races into the fray, sword raised, a battle cry on his lips. "I can see Ramsay." Quickly, she turns her horse.

"M'lady, hold on—"

"The battle won't last for long," Rose says, shakily. The despair turns her insides to knots, making it difficult to breathe, her hands trembling on the reins. "There's no chance Stannis's men will defeat them, not with those numbers. Sansa will be trapped there if we don't help her now."

"The candle in the window—!" Loreena cries. "Brienne isn't here, which means she's already seen the signal."

"We don't know that," Rose protests.

Loreena's eyes shine, desperately. "M'lady, _please_."

Rose stares back at her, unsure what to do. She glances out at the field again, listening to the cries of pain, watching the blood staining the snow. And Ramsay. He thunders through the forces, waving his sword, wildly, blood spraying on his face and hands.

Adrenaline coursing through her, she turns her horse and begins riding through the woods again. She hears Loreena sigh, then hooves following after her.

* * *

By the time they reach the opposite end of the woods, the sounds of clanging swords and screams of pain have died down considerably. _We're running out of time_ , is all Rose can think as their horses thunder closer to Winterfell.

When the castle is within reach, Rose quickly dismounts. Loreena is two steps ahead of her, shifting closer to the castle and crouching down, behind a lining of bushes. Rose hurries to her side. They watch as the remaining Bolton soldiers trail back through the gates, cheering in the wake of their victory.

"We'll never make it through," Loreena whispers.

"We don't have to. We'll round back and head through the tunnels. I know where they lead out—"

"Rose."

She turns. Loreena is no longer looking at her. Instead, her eyes are trained on something behind them. Whipping her head around, Rose sucks in a breath. Through the sudden dizziness in her head, she sees Ramsay dismounting his horse, drawing his blade, which is still drenched in blood. Slowly, she straightens into a standing position.

"I'll admit, My Lady, I am mildly impressed," Ramsay coos, a delighted smile spreading across his face. Three of his bannermen dismount their own horses, staring at the girls in disbelief and grim determination. "You've got bigger balls than I thought. Perhaps I'll keep them as a souvenir."

Rose's heart slams against her ribs, but she forces back her fear. Instead, she draws her own sword, gripping it, tightly. At her side, Loreena does the same. The girls glance at one another. Rose can see the solemn choice made in her glittering, green eyes before she does it.

Loreena raises her sword and charges at Ramsay. Rose glimpses their blades clashing together before the bannermen come running towards her.

The first lets out a loud roar, his sword slamming against hers. The second jabs his spear in her direction, but she ducks out of its way, grabbing it, before slashing her blade across his stomach. Blood spews from him, distracting the other long enough for Rose to drive Redthorn through his neck.

The third comes running at her, roaring a battle cry, swinging his sword. Rose quickly ducks under it and draws her dagger, jabbing it into his thigh. He lets out a roar of pain, staggering, and she reaches up, slamming her elbow into his nose. She can hear it crack as he falls backward, to the ground. Raising her sword, she plunges it into his eye, feeling the soft pad of the ground connecting with the tip as it drives through his head.

She hears a gasp. Spinning around, she watches Ramsay's sword plunging through Loreena's stomach, erupting out at her spine.

Something inside of Rose collapses. Her chest grows tight, suffocating, as Ramsay draws back his sword and Loreena falls to her knees. One last time, she looks her way, eyes dark and glassy. Then, Ramsay gives her a sharp kick, and she falls backwards to the ground. Blood streams out of her, staining the snow.

There is no time to feel guilty. Ramsay swivels around, his gleaming eyes fixated on her. Without a word, and in tremendous pain, Rose lifts her sword, ready to strike it across his neck. She doesn't hear the sound of men approaching her from behind.

Pain explodes across the back of her head. The ground disappears, and then, there is nothing.

* * *

 _Ghost stands in front of her. His white fur is prominent against the darkened backdrop of the forest. Those eyes, red as the leaves on a weirwood tree, gaze back at her with a strange sort of adoring._

 _Her heart aching, Rose sinks to her knees and stretches out her hands. Ghost lets out a small, low whine, and nuzzles into her. Her eyes drifting shut, Rose buries her face in his pure, white fur. It feels like home. In that moment, Ghost isn't just a wolf. He is her brother, Jon._

 _Her eyes snap open when she feels wetness dripping across her hands. She draws them away, and they come back red. With a shallow gasp, she notices the whiteness in Ghost's fur turning crimson with blood from wounds blossoming across his body. A helpless sob racks her chest as he sinks downwards, his head falling into her lap, those red eyes closing as the blood flows out of him._

 _Slowly, the darkness flickers into a dim light. She can no longer feel the weight of the direwolf against her. Instead, she can hear the rattle of chains and a dull, throbbing ache in her limbs as the nightmare slips away, as quickly as it appeared._

* * *

"… the Northern lords … Sansa Stark's escape … her sister … do what you will … hostage … keeping her alive … in one piece … enough silly games … remaining my heir … will not hesitate …"

The world is a giant, painful blur. Something cold and sharp is locked around her wrists, her arms hoisted over her head. Her muscles ache, her throat burns, and her head pounds. Whoever hit her, hit her hard. The smell of dampness fills her nostrils. Her feet are bare, planted on wet stone. She's in the cellar, in Winterfell.

When she stirs, she hears a rattling sound from above her. Lifting her head, her eyes come into focus, fixing on the two men standing near the door. Ramsay, with his cold blue stare, looks at her with a small frown. Roose sighs, glancing her, up and down. Then, he nods to his son and leaves the room, without another word.

Ramsay watches him leave, swallowing, thickly. When he turns to face Rose, his eyes are flashing, dangerously. "You're awake." His voice echoes in the room. "Good. I've been itching to get started."

Rose's eyes drift upwards. Chains are locked around her wrists, pulling her arms upward, towards the ceiling. "If you're going to kill me . . . get it over with," she rasps, a swell of fear and anger coiling in her stomach. "Then, you can go to hell."

A wet smile tugs on his lips. "Trust me, sister—"

"—don't call me that—"

Ramsay grabs her face in his hand, squeezing her, hard. "As much as I'd love to watch my hounds tear your pretty soft skin, there's been a few minor hiccups." His dirty eyes bear into hers, admiring her. Then, his grip turns gentle, brushing the hair from her face. "I need you very much alive."

He crosses the room, heading for the table. Rose repeats his words in her head, and she cannot help herself. A weak, gleeful laugh escapes her. "Sansa escaped."

"She did. She won't get far."

Rose grins, closing her eyes. "Good on her." When she opens them again, Ramsay is twirling a knife in his hand, his meaty finger rubbing against the steel tip. "Why aren't you killing me? I know your father sent that assassin to the Fingers." She smirks, coldly. "You've been trying to snuff out the competition."

"On the contrary, I rather enjoy competition." He advances on her, waggling the curved blade in his hand. Rose tries not to look at it, her heart speeding up. "Your sister only has one place she can go. One place in the entire world that would shelter her instead of handing her back to me. Should she reach Castle Black, your bastard brother will need some incentive to cooperate."

Rose laughs, hollowly. "That's why you're keeping me alive. You want to earn daddy's approval?"

Ramsay grins. His fingers untuck the hem of her shirt, then flicks it upwards, revealing the skin of her hip. Slowly, he places the tip of the dagger against her flesh and twists, digging it in. Rose's face screws up against the biting pain, her toes curling. She bites down on her lip to stop herself from crying out, but she cannot help it. A loud, strangled gasp escapes her. She can feel blood wetting her skin.

Ramsay's eyes remained fixed on her face. "You have a sharp tongue," he muses. "My father is eager to keep you alive and well to appease the Northern lords. However, I've always been somewhat of a loose cannon. We have that in common."

He removes the dagger, and she exhales in relief. Instead, he lifts it and brushes the cold steel, softly down her face. "The woman who helped your sister escape, the big, blonde beast, killed someone I care about very much before stealing my bride away. You're a Stark, aren't you? You understand what it's like to want to tear apart those who hurt the ones you love."

Rose feels sweat beading her brow. "Let me out of these chains and find out," she growls.

Ramsay chuckles, sounding genuinely delighted. "No. I've been eager to see you like this since our conversation on the ramparts. All chained up. At my mercy."

Darkness flashing in his eyes, he takes his knife and slices it down the front of her shirt. She gasps when the blade nicks her stomach, right above her navel. Ramsay pauses, his rough hand running over her exposed skin, contemplative.

Then, he leans in, yanking her close, and bites down, hard on her shoulder. Rose cries out, feeling his teeth sinking in, hard enough to draw blood. Almost instantly, he releases her, groaning with excitement when he sees the tears forming in her eyes. He chuckles and turns his back on her, his fingers brushing against the dagger's blade.

Rose grips the chains above her. _He won't kill me. If he won't kill me, what do I truly have to be afraid of?_

"Sansa bleeds so easily." When Ramsay swivels back around, her teeth are gritted, her chin lifted. That same, wet smile turns up his lips. "Let's see if the Rose of Winterfell has thicker skin."

* * *

 **A/N:** I know . . . this is an evil, evil cliff-hanger. Luckily, there is only a short gap between now and Season Six, which will be uploaded on 1st June! So, you won't have to wait long to find out what happens.

 **A quick reassurance** : Rose's journey has not been a pleasant one. It will continue to have unpleasantness because this is Game of Thrones. BUT, every terrible thing that happens to her happens for a reason. It will build her character, it will make her stronger, and I hope it encourages you to invest in her story until the very end. For every awful moment (especially now that she's in the hands of Ramsay), there will be good ones to counterbalance.

Season Six has been my favourite to write so far — it shows the biggest change in Rose's character — and I cannot wait to share it with you!


	51. The Red Woman

**A/N:** contains strong violence.

* * *

 **The** **Red** **Woman**

"Sinners don't make demands. They make confessions."

* * *

"Your command of the cavalry was impressive. Thanks to you, the false king Stannis Baratheon is dead. Do you know who struck the killing blow?"

"No," Ramsay admits.

"A shame. I'd reward the man. Still, a great victory." Roose stops, suddenly in the darkness of the hallway. "Do you feel like a victor?" he asks. Ramsay falters in his steps. His eyes narrow, as he turns to face his father. "I rebelled against the crown to arrange your marriage to Sansa Stark. Do you think that burning wagons in the night and mowing down tired, outnumbered Baratheons is the same as facing a prepared and provisioned Lannister army?"

Ramsay averts his gaze. "No."

Roose nods, and sweeps past him. Ramsay grimaces and follows after him into the great hall. "A reckoning will come. We need the North to face it. The entire North. They won't back us without Sansa Stark." He stops, in front of the table, his voice turning sharp. "We no longer have Sansa Stark."

"But, we have her sister."

"Rose is a Baelish," Roose snaps. "You played your games with Sansa and now she is gone."

Ramsay struggles to look calm. "I have a team of men after her with some of my best hounds," he says, tersely. "She won't get far."

"I'm glad to hear it." Roose fixes him with a stern look. "Without Sansa, you won't be able to produce an heir. And without an heir, well . . ." a small smile tugs at his lips as he sits down at the table, "let's hope the maesters are right and Lady Walder's carrying a boy." He picks up the flagon of wine and pours himself a chalice. Ramsay stares back at him, not even blinking. "Do what you will with Lady Rose, but should the lords of the North hear you've mutilated her—"

"I won't," Ramsay whispers, coolly. "I don't need to mutilate her to make her suffer."

With that, he turns on his heel and storms out of the hall.

* * *

The dungeons are bitterly cold, dampness seeping through the barred windows. When he walks in, she is fast asleep, her head lulling against her arms, which are chained upwards, towards the ceiling. Her shirt and breeches are torn and discarded to the floor, leaving her in a thin, white shift. He studies her, then slams the iron bars shut. "Rise and shine."

Rose lets out a low moan, stirring. Her arms scream in protest when she does, the muscles sore and clenched from being pulled upwards. Easing the pressure, she balances herself on her feet. The cold air seeping through the cell makes her body tremble.

Ramsay's hand finds her chin, lifting her head up. "Someone didn't get her beauty sleep."

"Don't touch me," Rose rasps, her throat burning.

Ramsay draws back his fist and slams it into her abdomen. Her mouth opens in a soundless scream, the pain tearing through her belly. "You're not in a terribly good position to make demands, My Lady." He turns his back, heading for the table lined with various frightening instruments.

Rose's hands curl around the chains, struggling to breathe against the blossoming pain in her stomach. "I'm not afraid of you," she croaks.

"I can see that." Ramsay chuckles, darkly. His hand grazes over a black, leather whip, with a single, pointed tail, thoughtfully. He picks it up and approaches her again. "Your sister was afraid of me. Quiet as a mouse." Rose holds her breath as he circles her, her heart pounding fast and hard. "You on the other hand . . ."

Without warning, he raises his arm and the whip crashes into the back of her thigh. A scream tears through Rose's throat, the pain blinding and instantaneous, like a stab of a white-hot knife. Blood wets her skin and drips down her leg.

". . . you're lucky I haven't cut out your tongue."

Rose squirms, trying to ignore the intense throbbing. "What do you want?" she wheezes.

"I'm grieving," Ramsay replies, smiling. "I'm seeking a healthy outlet for that grief."

Rose lifts her chin to look at him. His eyes are glistening, wildly. "My heart breaks for you, truly," she says, her voice raw. "Maybe if you hadn't treated my sister so terribly, Myranda would still be alive." She pouts, mockingly. "Maybe it's your fault she's dead."

Ramsay's jaw sets. With a forced laugh, he brings the whip down, hard on her hip. She can feel the metal tip tearing at her skin. Rose grits her teeth, trying not to cry out, but the scream comes anyway. Ramsay grips the back of her hair, pulling her head back, his nails scratching her scalp. "Mention her again, and I'll thrash you someplace a little more tender," he warns.

Rose glares back at him, her eyes stinging with tears. He releases her and takes a step back, a warm smile on his wet lips. "Let's play a game. I'm going to ask you a question. You will answer as truthfully as possible." He orbits her again. "If I think you're lying . . ."

The whip flies across the small of her back, unexpectedly. The scream burns her throat.

". . . its bite is rather nasty," Ramsay chuckles. He stands at her side, tilting his head to look at her. "How did you escape the Fingers?"

Rose presses her lips shut, sweat and tears dripping down her face. Ramsay reaches around and sinks his fingers into the thin wound on the back of her thigh. She wriggles against the sting, clenching tightly onto the chains. "I'm waiting."

 _I_ _won't_ _beg_ _._ _He'll_ _never_ _see_ _me_ _beg_ _—_

The whip whistles, and slams across her stomach. A sound, half a scream, half a sob, tears through her chest. She squeezes her eyes shut, willing the pain away. "Loreena . . ." she splutters, weakly. "She helped." When she opens her eyes, she can see red staining the front of her shift.

Ramsay frowns. "Loreena."

Rose's eyes dart upwards to meet his. "You drove a knife through her belly." Sniffling, she wearily straightens herself up. "Lady Brienne sent her to look out for me. When I heard Sansa was in trouble, I ordered her to take me back to Winterfell." A dull ache fills her chest, but she swallows it back. "She was my friend. You killed her."

A horrible grin spreads across his face. He leans closer to her. "Your friend did as she was told because you were her lady. You must be ridden with guilt."

A low groan escapes Rose. "You really are a cunt."

Ramsay's eyebrows go flying back, and he barks a laugh. "Foul language!" he exclaims.

The whip snaps across her other hip, followed by the same, searing pain. Rose presses her lips shut, suppressing her scream. His hand closes around her neck and he squeezes, his thumb pressing into her windpipe. "Did you kiss your bitch mother with that mouth?" he snarls, his breath all over her face.

Rose feels the blood thundering in her ears, her throat constricting. "— kill you —"

Ramsay releases her, and the air surges back into her, making her splutter. He steps back, cupping his hand behind his ear. "What was that?"

Her blazing eyes fix on his. "I said, I'm going to kill you," she growls.

Ramsay hums a laugh. "I do love a woman with spirit."

His hand smooths over her hip, clasping it, tightly. His thumb presses into the thin welt line there, a sharp twinge of pain bursting across her skin. She bites down, hard on her lip to stop herself from whimpering. Ramsay looks her over, leaning close to her, and she feels his face brushing against her neck. Rose grimaces, feeling bile rising to her throat. Abruptly, he nips at her ear, and she gasps at the sudden pain.

When he steps back, his eyes are dark and gleaming. "Don't worry, Lady Stark," he murmurs. He circles her again, his hand gliding over her stomach. "I'd never risk putting a bastard in your belly." He stands behind her, pulling her backwards against him, his fingernails digging into her hips, hard enough to draw blood. "How is Lord Baelish in the bedroom?" he whispers, in her ear. "Any other parts of him . . . little?"

Rose feels her cheeks burning, but remains silent.

"How does he compare to the Iron Prince?"

Her heart misses a beat. "What—? I don't know what you're talking about," she whispers.

"A lie!"

The whip smacks against the small of her back, harder this time, and a second falls in quick succession. The resounding wail she lets out echoes through the cell as it overlaps. Fresh tears flood down her cheeks. _I won't be able to take much more of this . . . gods, help me._

Ramsay trails the whip up and down her body, watching the tears drip from her chin. "When I took Winterfell, his little squids begged for mercy," he murmurs, silkily. "And I skinned them living. But, not before they told me all about you. How you helped your little brothers escape. All the things they wanted to do to you after that, but couldn't." The pad of his thumb grazes against her wet cheek, but she jerks away from it. "Greyjoy wanted you all to himself."

Rose sucks in a breath. "It's not the only reason he protected me," she croaks. Ramsay steps in front of her, and she looks him, squarely in his cold eyes. "Play Lord all you like. Winterfell belongs to my family. It's been the seat of House Stark since long before me, and long before you. As long as I'm alive, I'm a threat to your claim." Her lips twist into a sneer. "Your father had the right idea. Best put an end to me while you have the chance."

Ramsay stares at her, thinking. His grip tightens on the handle of the whip. Then, a smile breaks out on his face, and he waggles his finger at her. "I'm not killing you until you outlive your use," he insists. Then, he disappears, standing behind her again. "First, you're going to help me send your brother a message."

Rose braces herself, the whip whistling towards her again.

* * *

 **A/N:** In case it isn't obvious, torture scenes are super hard to write! Especially when you've become so invested in a character you've created, it sucks to see them suffer. But, I am soldiering through because this is my favourite season of Game of Thrones, and I want to do it justice! To make these next ten chapters work, I had to delve into the perspectives of some of the other characters. So, not EVERYTHING will be told from Rose's perspective this season.

Will someone be coming to her rescue? How is Littlefinger going to feel when he returns to the Fingers to find his wife has, not only taken off, but is currently being held hostage by a psychopath? Let me know your thoughts/feelings in the reviews!


	52. Home

**A/N:** contains strong violence/elements of sexual violence.

* * *

 **Home**

"The gods won't mind. They've spilled more blood than all of us combined."

* * *

"He came across the bodies on our way here."

Roose's cold eyes dart to Ramsay. "Half a dozen men? Your best hunters?"

"They obviously had help," Ramsay snaps.

"I didn't think Lady Sansa killed them all by herself," Roose sneers. His son falls silent, his arms folding across his chest, turning to scowl out of the window. "Thank you for this report, Lord Karstark."

"We know where she's going," says Ramsay. "Her brother's at Castle Black."

Karstark frowns. "Ned Stark's last surviving son?"

"Jon Snow's a bastard, not a Stark."

Ramsay tilts his head, lips pursed. "So was I, Father."

"Your hold on the North will never be secure as long as a Stark can walk through that door," Karstark points out.

Ramsay steps forward, thoughtfully. "Castle Black isn't defended on the southern side. And the few men left are barely men at all. Farm boys and thieves. With a small force, we could storm the castle, kill Jon Snow—"

"Murder the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch?" Roose interrupts, incredulously. "You'd unite every house in the North against us."

Ramsay frowns, shrugging. "We don't need every house in the North. The Umbers, the Manderlys, and the Karstarks command more soldiers than all the other houses combined. With their support, none could challenge us."

Karstark nods in bitter agreement. "The Starks lost my house the day King Robb cut off my father's head," he snarls. "It's time for new blood in the North."

"Rose Stark is in our dungeons," Ramsay says. "She'll serve purpose, should we need leverage against those who resist us."

Roose pushes himself to his feet, stepping away from the table. "In the meantime, will you delight in beating her? Flaying her? Raping her?" Slowly, he approaches his son, his jaw set. "If you acquire a reputation as a mad dog, you'll be treated as a mad dog. Taken out back and slaughtered for pig feed."

Ramsay's eyes flash. Whatever response he had in mind disappears at the sound of approaching footsteps, coming down the hallway towards the hall. Maester Wolkan appears, a bright smile on his face. "My lords. Lady Walda has given birth. A boy. Red-cheeked and healthy."

Ramsay goes very, very still.

"My congratulations, Lord Bolton," Karstark says, rigidly.

A hint of a smile plays on Roose's lips, as he turns to look at his son. For a split second, the hollow silence becomes loaded and uncomfortable. Then, Ramsay steps forward and embraces him. "Congratulations, Father," he murmurs, patting him on the back. "I look forward to meeting my new brother."

Roose draws apart. He fixes Ramsay with a steady look, putting a hand on his shoulder. "You'll always be my firstborn."

Ramsay nods, solemnly. "Thank you for saying that. It means a great deal to me."

In the next second, there's the distinctive sound of steel cutting through flesh. Roose buckles as Ramsay digs the knife through his ribs, right into his heart. A strange, gargling sound erupts from his throat, and Lord Bolton falls to his knees, which crunch on the stone floor.

Ramsay staggers backwards, watching him collapse to the ground and take his last, short breath. Roose's dead, glassy eyes stare upwards at the ceiling, unseeing.

* * *

The bars clang open. Rose turns her head to see Ramsay entering the room, donning a fur cloak and a conflicted expression — one she's never seen before. "Was starting to think you weren't going to show," she murmurs.

"Oh, no." His smile looks forced. "I'd hate to miss our daily chat."

Rose squirms in her chair. The chains around her wrists had left purplish bruises in their wake, and the rope tying them to the arms of the chair press against them, painfully. She can still feel the dull throbbing of the thin, but deep, welt lines across her skin. They burn each time she moves.

She watches, scowling, as Ramsay removes his cloak and drops it on the table. He shoves on a pair of thick gloves and picks up an iron rod, crossing over to the fireplace. Rose watches in horror as he crouches down, sticking it into the flames. "Touch me with that thing, and I'll claw your eyes out," she hisses.

"Ah-ah." Ramsay doesn't even look at her. "You're addressing the Lord of Winterfell. Am I going to have to teach you a lesson in respect?"

 _Lord of Winterfell_. Rose frowns, confused. "What have you done?" she whispers. Ramsay straightens into a standing position, twirling the rod in his hand. Their eyes lock, and she realises. "You killed him, didn't you? You killed your father."

Ramsay shrugs. "Categorically, yes." The grim, wet smile on his lips doesn't quite reach his eyes. "That's not the story I plan to tell. Frankly, I have larger concerns." He crouches down in front of her, searching her face. "Your sister and that hideous beast protecting her managed to outmanoeuvre my men. We recovered their bodies from the snow this morning."

Rose laughs, flatly. "What are you going to do? March up to Castle Black and root her out?"

Ramsay's eyes narrow. "Do you take me for a fool?" he exclaims. She nods before she can stop herself. He toys with the steaming rod in his hand, then, his eyes on her face, lightly trails the tip of it down her exposed thigh. It stings like nothing Rose has ever felt before. She hisses in pain, looking away when a jagged, red line appears on her porcelain skin. "Understand this. The longer my bride is kept from me, the longer you'll suffer."

He lifts the rod. Rose didn't realise she'd been holding her breath until her mouth opens in a gasp. "Go ahead," she pants, though fear twists her stomach into knots. "Better me than her."

Ramsay frowns, bemused. His hand trails over the glowing mark on her thigh. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're enjoying this as much as I am." Without warning, he shoves his hand up her shift and thrusts two fingers inside of her. Rose lets out a gasp of pain, shock clawing at her chest. She squirms against him, but he releases her almost immediately, with a dark chuckle. "Well, I've been wrong before."

He straightens up. Rose cannot help herself — frightened tears pool in her eyes and slide down her cheeks. She has to bite down on her lip to stop herself from sobbing out loud, but they rack her chest anyway.

"Something has been tugging at the back of my mind recently," Ramsay says, trying to be heard over her frantic weeping. "Your husband has stayed well out of the fray for a long, long time. Yet, somehow, he managed to nab a high-born girl with a good family name. Why _did_ he marry you?"

Rose sniffles, the tears in her eyes making it difficult to see. "He's in love with me."

Ramsay tuts, shaking his head. He puts a finger under her chin and tilts it up. "What did we say about lying?"

"It's the truth," Rose protests, feebly. "He married me before bringing Sansa here, because he knew that I'd volunteer to take her place as your bride."

Ramsay peers at her, thinking. "Anything else?" he asks, quietly.

Rose closes her eyes. _I can't tell him about the Knights of the Vale . . . he can never know the truth . . ._ she takes a deep, bracing breath, and shakes her head. Ramsay looks down at her, disbelieving. He stalks around her and his hands find the back of her shift. She flinches at the tearing sound as he rips the fabric, easily with his hands. Her skin prickles with goosebumps.

"Don't hold back, Lady Rose. I plan on making you scream loud enough for Jon Snow and all his little crows to hear."

With that, he pushes the rod into the flesh of her back.

* * *

 **A/N:** Things are (inevitably!) getting worse for Rose. The good news is that Sansa is heading for Castle Black. Will she push Jon into helping him save Rose? Or, will someone else beat them to it?


	53. Oathbreaker

**A/N:** sorry for such a short update! shortest chapter for this season, I promise.

* * *

 **Oathbreaker**

"My watch is ended."

* * *

Rose awakens to the sound of the bars clanging open. The cloth tied around her eyes is too thick to see through. All she can do is clutch onto the chair with her fists and wait. She hears footsteps walking into the room — two pairs of footsteps; one of them Ramsay's heavy boots, the second far lighter. The unmistakable scent of wet dog fills the room . . . and something else. Something very familiar. Her heart thunders in her chest.

A silence rings out. She holds her breath. The bars suddenly slam shut again, making her gasp, and she bites down, hard on her lip. Ramsay's heavy boots retreat, but she can hear panting coming from directly in front of her. Footsteps shuffle closer and closer to her.

Then, fingers grab at the cloth around her eyes and lift it up.

The world comes into focus. Tully blue eyes stare back at her, wide and in disbelief. His face is the same, yet completely different. Angled, having lost all of its baby fat, and much, much skinnier. Something inside of her shatters.

"Rickon?" she gasps, her throat raw. He gazes back at her, startled. Then, he instantly begins tugging at the ropes that bind her wrists to the chair, his hands trembling. "How—? When did you—?"

The ropes drop to the floor. Rickon throws his arms around her and holds her, tightly. Ignoring the sharp pain that spreads across her body, Rose hugs him back, squeezing her eyes shut as silent tears slide down her cheeks.

* * *

The broken creature in front of Rickon doesn't look like his sister. Well, it does, and it doesn't.

Her hair is shorter, no longer flowing to her waist; a tatted mess that hangs over her shoulders. She has purplish bruises blossoming across her skin and harsh, red scars that peek out from under her blood-stained shift. That's not the worst of it. Her back is covered in blistered burn marks, in unusual, neat lines over her skin.

He cannot help but stare at her. They sit together on the floor, their legs crossed, opposite each other. "How did you end up in Last Hearth?" she asks, eventually. "I told Osha to take you to Riverrun."

Rickon frowns. "We were going to. Then . . . Maester Luwin said we were better off going to Castle Black. To Jon. If she took us back to Robb, she'd have sent us to war."

Rose nods, softly. "I'm glad she didn't," she whispers. "It's the reason you're still alive." He manages a small smile, which she returns, weakly. "Where did Bran go?"

"Beyond the Wall."

"Beyond the—?" Rose's eyes blow wide. "What for?"

He opens his mouth to respond when there's a sharp, clanging sound from outside the cell. Their heads whip around, hearing voices coming from the opposite end of the cellar. _Not in front of him,_ Rose silently pleads. _Please, gods, d_ _on't let him do anything to me in front of him._ The voices die as quickly as they started, and the sound of retreating footsteps echo in the empty halls. She exhales in relief.

Rickon's eyes dart back to his sister. "What did he do to you, Rose?" he asks, tentatively.

She blinks, staring back at him. Each time she moves, the wounds burn, reminding her how they got there in the first place. All those painful memories spin around, relentlessly in her head. To talk about it out loud . . . she has to bite down on her lip to stop the tears coming. Instead, she averts her gaze to the ground.

Rickon hangs his head. "He's going to kill us," he whispers.

Rose reaches over and clasps his hand. "Sansa and Jon are at Castle Black. That's where we'll go."

"If we escape."

" _When_ we escape." Gently, she reaches up and cups his face with her hand. His eyes turn glassy as he looks at her. "It can't get any worse than this. It can only get better."

He sighs. Tiredly, he pulls her hand from his face and gives it a squeeze. "That's not true," he says, emptily. She stares back at him — never in a million years did she imagine the boy who used to fit, so easily on her lap, the boy who would beg her for sweets and play with her hair could look so grown-up. A small smile tugs his lips up. "I really missed you, Rose."

Her heart aches inside her chest. "I really missed you, too."

* * *

 _To the traitor and bastard Jon Snow,_

 _You allowed thousands of wildlings past the Wall. You have betrayed your own kind and you have betrayed the North. Winterfell is mine, bastard, come and see._

 _Your brother Rickon is in my dungeon. His direwolf's skin is on my floor, come and see. I have the Rose of Winterfell in my torture chamber. Do my bidding and no further harm will come to her. Refuse me and she will suffer._

 _I want my bride back. Send her to me, bastard, and I will not trouble you or your wildling lovers. Keep her from me and I will ride North to slaughter every wildling man, woman, and babe living under your protection. You will watch as I skin them living. You will watch as my soldiers take turns raping your sisters. You will watch as my dogs devour your wild little brother. Then I will spoon your eyes from their sockets and let my dogs do the rest. Come and see._

 _Ramsay Bolton, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North._

* * *

 **A/N:** Will both Rickon and Rose make it out of this alive? Will Ramsay's letter goad Jon into coming for them?


	54. Book of the Stranger

**A/N:** contains strong violence.

* * *

 **Book of the Stranger**

"Slavery is a horror that should be ended at once. War is a horror that should be ended at once."

* * *

Ramsay throws open the dungeon doors, two of his men following after him. On the floor, Rickon and Rose are fast asleep, leaning against the wall, his head on her shoulder. The moment his eyes open, Rickon leaps to his feet, clenching his fists.

"Where's Osha?" he snaps. "What did you do with her?"

"The North is no place for wildlings," Ramsay replies, curtly. "The sooner your bastard brother understands that, the better."

He nods to his men. They cross over to Rickon and take him by either arm. He struggles against them as they drag him backwards, towards the door. Rose staggers to her feet, lurching forward. "Let go of him!" she screeches.

Her hands instinctively go for Ramsay and grab at his cloak. He whips around, eyes blazing. Pain explodes across the side of her face as the back of his hand slams into it. She feels the skin breaking, the wetness of blood, as the stone floor slaps up to meet her. "No!" comes Rickon's frantic voice. "Leave her alone! Please, please, leave her!"

Rose looks up in time to see the men half-dragging, half-carrying him out of the room. His eyes, wide and frightened, stare back at her. She can see the glisten of tears on his face before he disappears. Ramsay closes the bars behind him. Slowly, he turns back around to face Rose, removing his gloves.

She scowls back up at him. "If you lay a finger on my brother—"

Ramsay draws back his foot and slams it into her gut. It feels like something inside of her has torn, the searing agony causing her to curl up, into a ball. "You have fire, little wolf," comes his voice, silky and mocking. "I admire that." She can hear his footsteps pacing the room. "Even so, I have cut out men's tongues for less."

His hand grabs a fistful of her hair and her scalp burns. A loud cry escapes her as he hauls her upwards, then tosses her in the direction of the chair. Her hands fly up in time to catch herself on the arms. Ramsay circles her, and puts his hands on her shoulders, pushing her backwards into the chair. She watches, warily, as he knots her wrists to the arms, the rope cutting into her skin.

"Up until now, I've been treating you gently. Your snide remarks. That mischievous glint in your eye . . ."

He moves to stand in front of her again. Crouching down, he looks her, dead in her face. Her teeth gritted, Rose forces herself to glare back at him. The flat of his palm smacks across her cheek, so hard, she can taste blood in her mouth. ". . . I won't stand for it." She's barely lifted her head again when he hits her again, across the other cheek. Her head reels with the sting of it.

Ramsay grasps her chin in his hand, forcing her to look at him. "I am the Lord of Winterfell, now. The sooner you accept that, the easier your life will become." Reaching down, he unsheathes a dagger from his belt. Rose shudders at the scraping sound. He draws the tip of it across her jawline. "Embrace your Lord, Lady Stark, because the alternative will hurt far worse."

Her eyes dart upwards to meet his. Squaring her shoulders, she gathers up the blood in her mouth and spits it into his face. Ramsay goes very, very still. Slowly, he lifts his sleeve and wipes it away. His eyes are dark and gleaming, bearing into hers. "I am going to break you into a thousand tiny pieces," he whispers.

Rose stares, emptily, at the glint of the blade. Feeling nothing, she closes her eyes and lets her mind drift as the steel cuts into her.

* * *

Darkness settles over Winterfell.

The snow falls in gentle drifts in the stilled winds, coating the heads of the Bolton soldiers standing on the battlements. The quiet of the night puts them at ease. For hours, they'd been forced to listen to the sounds of the Stark girl, screaming in the dungeons. Now, as it draws closer to midnight, a strange sense of peace washes over the castle.

Had anyone been paying close attention, had anyone sensed the danger, they'd have seen the grappling claws flying over the ramparts. A thousand silhouettes, donning glinting silver armour with a kraken embellished in their breastplates, quietly scramble up the steep walls, heading for the ramparts.

A small scuffling sound alerts one of the Bolton guards. Cautiously, he crosses over to the ramparts and goes to peer over the edge. An axe swings from over the side and lodges itself in his skull. With a grunt, he topples backwards, his blood spilling out on the stones. Yara's head peeks over the side, followed by more.

She leaps over the wall and tugs her axe from his head. Glancing around at her fellow Ironborn, she points them, silently in their directions, the sound of Bolton guards running across the stone echoing throughout the battlements. Caught off guard, their throats are slit, instantly, swords driven through their bellies.

Just as another Ironborn raider comes climbing over the wall.

Brandishing a sword from his belt, he grabs ahold of one of the Bolton soldiers — too young to be carrying a blade, perhaps — and pins him against the wall. "The Stark girl," he spits in his face. "Where is she?"

The boy holds up his hands, frantically. "I don't—"

He presses the steel against his neck. " _Where is she_?"

"The dungeons! Ramsay has her in the dun—!"

The blade bites across his throat, blood spurting from him, and he falls to the ground.

* * *

Yara slams her axe against the lock and it snaps against the steel, then clatters to the floor. She kicks open the bars, the sound of them clanging against the wall echoing through the dungeons. He follows her in and his fist tightens on the hilt of his sword. He can hear Yara muttering something behind him — "gods, what's he done to her?" — but cannot draw his eyes away from the disturbing image before him.

Rose is alarmingly still, unconscious in a chair in the middle of the room. Multiple bruises have broken out over her face, one of them swelling up the side of her mouth, her lip split down the centre of it. Clear cuts line her arms and thighs, which are both covered in blood, and her torn shift leaves little to the imagination of the other damage done to her body.

For him, it is worse than death.

He stumbles forwards and instantly begins clawing at the ropes binding her wrists to the chair. "Rose?" he whispers with a lump forming in his throat. The ropes drop to the floor, and he cradles her face in his hands, tilting it upwards. "Rose, it's me. It's Theon." She remains still as anything. His heart begins to thump inside of his chest. "I'm here, Rose. You're safe now. We're going to get you out of here."

"Quickly, now," Yara's strangled voice comes from the doorway. "Before the bastard wakes."

Theon nods. Steeling himself, he gathers Rose into his arms and carries her out of the cell.

Yara goes to follow him, but something catches her eye on the table. Crossing over to it, she sees the torn remains of riding clothes and a cloak. Next to it, a belt, with a sheathed sword and a dagger. Frowning, she picks it up, and her thumb grazes over the ruby direwolf engraved in the hilt. She wraps it up in the cloak, tucks it under her arm and follows her brother out of the cell.

* * *

Rain begins to drizzle down, pattering over Long Lake and glistening on the grass. Mud sloshes against the horses as they thunder closer to the waters.

Instinctively, Theon's arm tightens around Rose's body, which remains lifeless against his chest. She is covered with an enormous fur cloak, but he can see goosebumps on the skin that is exposed. Struggling a little, he draws the hood up over her head, looking down at her battered face. She has never looked so small, cradled against him, her nose red against the cold.

The Ironborn round the lake Northwards, stopping when they see Lord Baelish, donned all in black, surrounded by a handful of knights. Theon clenches the reins the closer they come to him. Everything about him — his sharp, sneering features, his laughing grey-green eyes — turns his stomach.

"Lord Greyjoy," he greets when their horses stop in front of him. "My Lady."

Yara glares back at him, stony-faced. "We have your bride."

"That is good news."

"Strange," Theon calls, trying to be heard over the pattering rain. "When we reached the gates of Winterfell, the Knights of the Vale were nowhere in sight. We were forced to escape through the tunnels."

Littlefinger's lip twitches. "They were waiting near Moat Cailin, My Lord," he explains, smoothly. "Should you have had trouble in your quest, they would have intervened, I assure you."

" _Our_ quest," Yara corrects, sharply. "That wasn't the plan."

"There's a war coming. The Starks and the Boltons will cross swords soon enough. I promised my wife that she would have the backing of the Vale, should that day come." His gaze flits over Rose, who remains, curled up and asleep, in Theon's arms. "I could not risk losing my numbers. Regardless, this is not your fight." He lets out a hollow chuckle. "Go back to the Iron Islands. I'm sure your uncle is eager to receive you."

"What about Rose?" Yara asks, tersely.

"She'll be coming back to the Vale, with me. I'll make sure she's well-tended to—"

"She's not going anywhere with you," Theon snaps. His arms tighten, possessively around her. "I heard you sold Sansa to the Boltons to further an alliance. Sold her to that animal like she was nothing more than a broodmare. You think, after that, we'd allow you to—?"

"Allow me?" Littlefinger interrupts, his voice biting. "Lady Rose is my wife. She'll go where I see fit. Besides, Sansa is an intelligent young woman. Far from the girl you knew growing up at Winterfell. She will understand why I did what I did."

Yara arches an eyebrow. "You can find out for yourself when we reach Castle Black."

Littlefinger studies her, his lips pressing together. "As I said . . . it seems to me you have your own war to fight." His eyes flit to Theon. "Your allegiance is not with the Night's Watch anymore."

"Jon Snow sent Theon from the Wall so he could return home," Yara barks. "To his true family." Her horse takes a few, purposeful strides towards him. "I owe him the courtesy of protecting his."

Not waiting for a response, she looks over her shoulder at Theon and gives him a nod. Theon glares, one last time at Littlefinger, then he and his men go galloping after her. It takes a moment, but the Knights of the Vale reluctantly follow them, their Lord Protector included, heading further North.

* * *

 **A/N:** Rose is free! Plus, Theon is no longer a man of the Night's Watch — he's back in the Iron Islands where he belongs. How will Jon react when he sees Rose again, and in such a state? Could there be a potential alliance situation between the Starks and the Greyjoys? And what do you think happened to Rickon? Let me know your thoughts!


	55. The Door

**A/N:** long chapter ahead!

* * *

 **The Door**

"Hold the door."

* * *

"Open gates!"

Jon hurries out onto the balcony, watching over the courtyard as the southern gates of Castle Black swing open. His jaw sets when he spots the Knights of the Vale galloping through, with their proud, sky-blue sigils. Littlefinger leads them, glancing around him with disdain at the surrounding brothers and wildlings.

His fists clenched, he descends the staircase, his eyes trained on Lord Baelish. His horse stops in the middle of the yard, and he hops off it with ease. "Lord Commander." He dips into a slight bow.

Not trusting himself to take another step, Jon pauses. "You've got a lot of nerve coming here," he growls.

"I've brought you a gift," Littlefinger says, calmly. "A peace offering."

Jon shakes his head. "I don't want your gift."

"Yes, you do." He steps to one side, smugness written all over his face.

Jon's eyes dart to the second series of guards thundering through the gates. Ironborn. The first face he notices is Theon's, solemn and haunted. There is something gathered up in his arms, concealed under a large cloak. Jon watches, frowning, as he dismounts his horse, hoisting up the bundle into his arms.

He can see her face. Pale as snow, peeking out from under the fur blanket. For the second time since his resurrection, a powerful ache fills his chest. A good ache, accompanied by a surge of relief, as he looks at Rose's sleeping form.

Theon carries her over until he is standing right before him. Jon gazes down at her, and his stomach flips at the dark, purple bruises covering her skin. He runs his hand over her head, sighing in anguish.

"We need to get her inside," Theon mutters.

Jon nods, swallowing. Carefully, Theon eases her into his arms, and she still doesn't stir. He staggers with the weight of her, wondering when she became not so easy to lift. Anxiously, he meets Theon's gaze. "Rickon?"

Theon shakes his head, gravely. "Couldn't find him," is all he manages.

Jon's heart breaks again. Steeling himself, he turns on his heel and heads for Commander's Keep. "Fetch the maester," he orders when he sees Edd standing, baffled near the rickety staircase.

* * *

A bucket of warm water sloshes as it is set down on the table. Jon carries Rose's lifeless body over to the bed, his eyes wide and panicked. "On her stomach," Yara instructs. Gently, he positions her on the bed, her head lulling against the pillows.

"Why hasn't she woken up?" Theon asks, stiffly.

"The mind can drift after severe trauma," the Maester says. "She distanced herself when she believed she was in danger, but now that the danger has passed, she has no reason to stay distrait. I dare say she'll wake up soon."

Yara draws a dagger from her belt and crosses over to the bed. Jon grips her wrist, frowning. "Easy."

"You fancy disrobing her yourself?" she demands, her eyes wild like fire. "Those wounds could already be infected. We should get them cleaned up before they can do her further damage." Her attention swivels to Theon, who stands, ashen-faced in the corner. "I suggest you spare her blushes and go and fetch some more blankets."

Quickly, she perches on the edge of the bed and grips the back of Rose's shift. The knife slices through the fabric easily, exposing her back. Jon flinches when he catches a glimpse of it, various welt lines, cuts, and burn marks clear against her porcelain skin. At the tearing sound, she finally stirs, letting out a low moan into the pillows.

Her eyes flutter open, peeking at her surroundings. When they settle on him, he feels the breath leaving his body. "Jon?" she whispers, in a scratchy voice. Her brow furrows together, tears brimming. "Theon."

Jon glances over his shoulder. Theon stares back at her, blinking, then his jaw sets and he leaves the room, his boots hammering across the floorboards. A part of Jon wishes he could follow him. Instead, he crouches down at the side of the bed, so his face is level with hers, and runs his hand, tenderly over her head.

"Hush, now," he whispers. "You're alright. You're safe."

Yara begins dipping a cloth into the warm water and fervently dabbing at the dried blood on her arms and back. At this, Rose's eyes blow wide, and she looks like a frightened deer. "Where—? Where is . . . he?" she gasps.

"Nowhere near," Jon insists, his hand cradling her face. "He's not gonna hurt you again. You understand?"

Rose only blinks, tears sliding down her bruised cheeks. The rest of her shift is torn away, and Yara pulls the blankets up to her waist. All the while, Jon keeps his eyes trained on her face, running his hands over her matted hair.

When the Maester returns, he has a bottle of scarlet ointment in his hands. Yara shifts so he can sit down on the bed, and he begins smoothing the ointment over Rose's back. The moment it touches her skin, Rose lets out a loud gasp and buries her face back in the pillows.

"What is that?" Jon asks, alarmed when Rose begins sobbing and wriggling.

"Myrish fire," Yara replies. "Keep her still."

Rose's hand flies out and grabs Jon's, squeezing it so tightly, her knuckles turn white. Her loud cries are muffled by the pillows in her face. He does his best to soothe her, whispering comforting words, stroking her hair, but she doesn't let up. Finally, her head twists around, and she gazes at him with big, watery eyes.

"It's my fault," she whimpers, her breath hitching, uncontrollably. "Sansa . . . I should have stopped it. I n-never wanted her to get hurt, I was just trying to h- _help_."

"I know." Jon tries a warm smile. "Rose, it's not your fault."

She shakes her head as if she hasn't heard him. Her eyes squeeze shut. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"It's alright," Jon continues, his chest constricting. "You're home now."

"No!" she splutters, writhing against the covers. "No, I don't have a home . . . I haven't had a home in — no, make it stop!" she chokes, suddenly, as more Myrish fire is spread across her back. "Please, make it stop!"

Firm hands grip Jon's shoulders. He finds himself being yanked out of the way, staggering backwards against the bedpost. Yara takes his place. She sits on the edge of the bed and grips Rose's wrists, pinning her down.

"Rose," she barks, trying to be heard over her frantic sobbing. "Look at me. No one's gonna hurt you. We're here to help. Do you understand me? Tell me you understand." Rose manages a small nod. "Deep breaths," Yara instructs, softening her grip. Her sobs subsiding, she takes a few, sharp breaths. "That's a good girl."

As Rose's eyes drift shut once more, sniffling as she slackens on the bed, Yara looks up. Theon stands in the doorway, having watched the scene with empty eyes, clutching onto the blankets with clenched fists. She'd never seen him look so broken.

* * *

Sansa hurries up the staircase towards the Lord's Chamber, Brienne trailing behind her. When she reaches the door, Jon is stepping out, dark circles under his hollow eyes, sighing, wearily. Instantly, she feels nauseous. "Where is she?"

"In there," Jon croaks. She goes to open the door, but his hand closes around hers. "Sansa, she . . ." he trails off, swallowing. "It's not—"

"I need to see her," Sansa interrupts. Her lips press together. "I need to see what he's done to her."

Jon gazes back at her. After a silent moment, he nods his head. She gives his hand a gentle squeeze and heads into the room, holding her breath. Brienne closes the door behind them.

It's not nearly as bad as she imagined. It's worse.

Rose sits on the side of the bed, a fur-lined blanket draped around her shoulders, hugging her legs to her chest. Guaranteed, she looks far better than she did when she first arrived. She is dressed in a clean, cotton nightgown that belongs to Sansa — which explains why it doesn't fit quite right on her body — and her hair is damp from bathing. Now that all the blood is cleaned from her, the distinctive wounds stand out across her pale skin.

Her Tully blue eyes, the eyes they share, dart upwards to meet hers. Before she can say anything, Sansa leaps forward and crouches down, wrapping her arms around her. Gently, so as not to further injure her. It takes her a moment, but Rose sinks into the embrace, burying her face in her shoulder.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. Her voice sounds scratchy and raw.

Sansa draws apart, blinking away the tears. "What are you sorry for?"

"I never should have let you marry him." She bites down on her bruised lip. "We could have avoided all of this—"

"No, it's my fault. It was my decision—"

"I wanted to protect you so badly—"

" _I_ wanted to protect _you_ ," Sansa exclaims. "It's all I ever wanted. For us to be safe." Forcing herself to smile, she rubs a soothing hand up and down Rose's arm, minding the cuts there. "We are, now. I promise."

Rose nods, her eyes watery. A part of her is overwhelmed, seeing her little sister kneeling before her, and looking so, so grown-up. There's a heaviness to her eyes that wasn't there before, even after all that Joffrey had done to her. But her chin is lifted, and her jaw is set, like she's prepared for battle.

A timid knock on the door turns both of their heads. In walks Littlefinger. Rose has to clutch at her legs to refrain from leaping at him. Instead, she glares back at his smiling face, feeling such a surge of anger, it momentarily overshadows all of the pain in her body.

"Sansa." His eyes dart to the heavily armoured woman standing near the bed, who has clutched onto the hilt of her sword at his entrance. "Lady Brienne."

The three women stare back at him, unsmiling.

"When I heard you had escaped Winterfell, I feared the worst," he tells Sansa, his voice wavering at the look on her face. "You have no idea how happy I am to see you unharmed."

Sansa straightens up, frowning. "Unharmed?" she repeats. "What are you doing here?"

"I rode north with the Ironborn and the Knights of the Vale to come to your sister's aid. They're encamped at Moat Cailin as we speak."

"The Knights of the Vale never passed Winterfell's gates," Rose whispers. The rawness of her voice makes him visibly flinch, and he struggles to even look at her, his eyes fixated on the floor. "You had no intention to waste them with my rescue."

"Did you know about Ramsay?" Sansa asks, coolly. "If you didn't know, you're an idiot. If you did know, you're my enemy." She takes two, bold steps towards him. "Would you like to hear about our wedding night?"

Littlefinger remains still, and silent.

"He never hurt my face," Sansa says, not waiting for a response. "He needed my face, the face of Ned Stark's daughter. But the rest of me . . . he did what he liked with the rest of me. As long as I could still give him an heir." Her voice goes deadly quiet. "What do you think he did?"

Littlefinger shakes his head, meekly. "I can't begin to contemplate—"

"What do you think he did to me?"

Again, his eyes drop to the floor. The room fills with an uncomfortable silence that has Rose holding her breath. Eventually, Brienne's hand tightens around the hilt of her sword. "Lady Sansa asked you a question."

"He beat you."

"Yes, he enjoyed that. What else do you think he did?"

"Sansa, I—"

"What else?"

Littlefinger's brow furrows. "Did he cut you?"

A small, dark smile twists up Sansa's lips. "Maybe you did know about Ramsay all along," she murmurs.

"I didn't know," he insists.

Sansa tilts her head. "I thought you knew everyone's secrets."

Littlefinger lifts his hands, his eyes gleaming. "I made a mistake," he implores. "A horrible mistake. I underestimated a stranger." He tries to step closer, but Brienne shifts at their side, and he stops, immediately.

"The other things he did, ladies aren't supposed to talk about those things, but I imagine brothel keepers talk about them all the time," Sansa whispers, thickly. For the first time, she sounds genuinely distraught. "I can still feel it. I don't mean in my tender heart. It still pains me so. I can still feel what he did in my body, standing here right now."

Rose feels a sharp pang in her chest. Her worst nightmare is being realised.

"I'm so sorry," Littlefinger whispers, his face pained.

"And your wife?" Sansa continues. She lifts her chin, putting the force back in her voice. "I suppose the marks on her skin leave little to the imagination, but you haven't even asked her. It's because you're afraid to know the answers. The truth of what your scheming has done to her. To us."

He pauses. Finally, his eyes fixate on Rose. Her arms curl, instinctively around her legs under his gaze. "I married you because you promised to protect me and my sister," she rasps.

"And I will," Littlefinger presses. He leans forward like he wants to hold her. "You must believe me when I tell you that I will."

"It's too late." Rose shakes her head, furious tears springing to her eyes. "It's far too late. The worst came for us, and you stood back and watched it all unfold."

"We don't need you anymore," says Sansa, coldly. "You can't protect us. You won't even be able to protect yourself if I tell Brienne to cut you down." Her eyes flash, the thought lighting them up. "And, why shouldn't I?"

Littlefinger winces. "Do you want me to beg for my life?" he asks, weakly. "If that's what you want, I will. Whatever you ask that is in my power, I will do. But, remember, we are family, so long as your sister is my bride."

"She wants you dead as much as me," Sansa snaps. "I don't even need to look at her to know."

Littlefinger does. His eyes bear into hers from where she sits, across the room. Again, his body tenses with the ache to go to her, to touch her. She can see it. "Is that true, my love? You want me to die?" he asks, softly. His only response is a stony glare. "Then, I will die."

Sansa's lips purse. "You freed me from the monsters who murdered my family, and you gave me to other monsters who murdered my family."

He glances at her, nodding. Again, the room goes silent.

Rose clutches the blanket, tighter around herself. Slowly, she gets to her feet, ignoring the fierce aching of her limbs, and crosses the room towards Littlefinger. He watches her, swallowing. Then, she is standing directly in front of him, their faces aligned.

"Leave," she commands, darkly. "Go back to Moat Cailin. If you ever come this far north again, I will root you out and execute you myself. I don't want your army. I don't want your alliances. And, I certainly don't want you." At this, he frowns, hurt, but she ignores it. "My family and I will take back the North on our own."

"I would do anything to undo what's been done to you," he says, softly. "I know that I can't. Will you allow me to say one more thing before I go? Your great-uncle, Brynden the Blackfish, has gathered what remains of the Tully forces and retaken Riverrun. You might consider seeking him out. The time may come when you need an army loyal to you."

Rose frowns. "We have an army."

"Your brother's army." Littlefinger looks down at her, his smug air returning. Leaning in, he gives her a kiss on the forehead that makes her shudder. Drawing back, he cups her cheek in his hand. "Half-brother."

Without another word, her husband turns on his heel and swiftly leaves the room.

* * *

She finds him in the common hall, sitting on one of the tables. He faces the front, looking thoughtfully at the timbered high table. For a second, she feels bad for disturbing him. Then, her foot creaks on the floorboard, and his head whips around.

A dim smile crosses his lips. "You look terrible."

Rose chuckles. "So, do you."

Tightening the cloak around herself, she walks towards him. His eyes watch her, intently, looking for signs of distress. Other than the nasty bruises across her face, she seems relatively sound. She stops in front of him, and her smile fades. "I came to say goodbye."

Theon frowns. "Goodbye?"

"Yara tells me that your uncle, Euron, has taken the Iron Islands. That he killed your father." She shakes her head, her brow furrowing. "I'm so sorry, Theon."

His eyes close, momentarily, his jaw clenching. When he opens them again, he stares down at his hands, clasped in his lap. "She should be our Queen," he murmurs. "She'd do a better job of it than I ever could."

Rose arches an eyebrow. "That's the wisest thing you've ever said," she teases.

Theon's face breaks out in a wide grin. "Oi."

He watches in awe as she laughs again, wondering how she's managing to do so after everything that's happened. Carefully, so as not to startle her, his hands find her hips, and he tugs her towards him, between his legs. "I want to fight for you," he implores. "Like I should have done, years ago."

Rose nibbles on her bottom lip. "Your place isn't here anymore." She runs a hand through his curls, tilting his head up to look her in the eye. "Jon sent you away for a reason. Your family needs you, just as mine needs me."

Theon shakes his head. "I can't even begin to make up for the things I've done," he mutters. "Fighting for the Starks in the name of the North seems like a good place to start."

Rose smiles, sadly. She laces her arms around his shoulders. "Take your home back," she pleads. "I'll take back mine. And, we'll find our way back to one another again. Like we always inevitably do," she adds, and he chuckles, wryly.

His eyes, green like sage, gaze into hers. A powerful ache fills her chest, but she resists the urge to cry. Instead, she dips her head against his, relishing in the feeling of his closeness. "Thank you for saving me," she whispers, curling her fingers through the back of his hair. "I'll return the favour someday."

Again, he grins. "I'll hold you to that."

Together, they laugh. The sound dies the moment their lips touch, and she kisses him, fervently. All the pain, the things that Ramsay did to her in that room, all the distance that has separated them in the past few years disappears. All she knows is him. Theon, holding her, kissing her. She never wants him to let go.

Of course, he does, their heads drawing away. Not having the strength to say goodbye again, she turns and heads for the door. The moment his arms slip from her, she is enveloped in coldness.

"Rose?" he calls. She looks over her shoulder. He straightens up, swallowing. "Should you need me again . . ."

She grins. "I'll count on you to cross the oceans."

* * *

The days pass in a strange calm. Rose spends a lot of that time in bed, resting when she has the nerve to close her eyes. Sansa checks in on her every now and then, to bring her food or fresh clothing. She cannot help but feel somewhat resentful, knowing that everyone is planning and preparing for the battle while she is stuck on bedrest.

Not to mention, Jon hasn't visited at all. She knows why, in the back of her mind. She remembers his face when he saw her, lying in that bed, screaming and crying. He looked so utterly helpless.

And, Rose hates feeling so fragile. Even as the pain in her body lessens, and the bruises begin to lighten on her skin. The nightmares still wake her every night. Her little sister still sees her in such a dreadful state, growing weaker while she grows stronger by the day.

One morning, as the snow falls heavier outside of her chambers, sticking to the window, she climbs out of bed and crosses the room, to the mirror above her table. She looks at her reflection, seeking her out. The girl who spat in Ramsay's face. The girl who pulled a knife on the Hound, on Littlefinger. The girl who brought an Ironborn to his knees. The girl who truly believed she could rule the North someday.

Instinctively, her mind goes to Loreena.

 _They sing songs for your family, for House Stark. Praying for even the dimmest of lights in a blackened realm . . . that the Rose of Winterfell will return to take her rightful place as Wardeness of the North. That she'll rule with the same honour and grace as her father . . . they've already chosen, Lady Stark. They choose you. A thousand times over, they'll choose you._

Amidst the piercing stab of grief, her chin lifts. Her decision made, she turns away from the mirror and picks up a handful of clothes Sansa had draped over the chair.

* * *

When she enters the courtyard, the wind blows the snow in her face. Squinting against it, she heads down the staircase, scanning the number of horses, the men mounting them. At the front, she can see her sister sitting near the Red Woman and Brienne. Behind them, she can see Podrick and Tormund and a handful of other men, all staring at the gates like they've signed their own death sentences.

When she reaches the bottom of the staircase, Jon turns his head. He frowns when he sees her approaching, but it quickly morphs into a soft smile. "You were put on bedrest for a reason."

"Well, you know me." She sighs, grinning. "Restless."

He looks her, up and down. She wears crimson riding breeches, and a thin coating of chainmail under a fitted, leather breastplate with the Stark sigil engraved on it. Her hair is pinned backwards, braided away from her face, showing the healing bruises on her skin. Draping over her is a thick, fur cloak of the darkest black. She looks battle-ready, and it makes him wince.

"Rose, you don't—"

"I'm tired of sitting back, watching all of you getting ready for a fight I know I can help you win," she interrupts, curtly. "I'm a Stark. My place is with my family. Not shut up in this miserable old dump."

Jon stares at her, then chuckles. "Anything I can say to stop you?" he asks. Rose tilts her head, giving him a look. He sighs, still grinning. "You've grown stubborn."

"Hmh. I learned from the best."

His brown eyes bear into hers for a long moment, staring at her like he cannot quite believe she's there, standing in front of him. Then, he removes one of the belts from around his hips. "Yara recovered this from Winterfell." He holds it out, and she catches her breath. "Seems to think it belongs to you."

Rose bites down on her bottom lip, a bright smile spreading across her face. "Redthorn," she breathes.

Tenderly, she takes the sword back into her hands, where it is sheathed beside Robb's curved dagger. Struggling under the weight of her cloak, she fastens the belt around her own hips. The small amount of fight she had left inside of her swells, burning through her veins.

Her eyes dart upwards to gaze at Jon. Ignoring the ache of her body, she throws herself at him, burying her face in his own fur cloak. Silently, his arms circle around her. Then, he is holding her, as tightly as he can, his eyes closing over her shoulder. They hold each other for a while. When she pulls apart, she beams up at him. "I missed you, big brother."

Jon sighs, shakily. "I missed you, too," he rasps. He drops a soft kiss on her brow, his hand cradling her head, then crosses over to where Edd is standing, watching the scene unfold.

Rose heads over to the horses, catching Sansa's eyes. For a moment, she looks baffled. Then, a knowing grin crosses her lips. Rose smiles back at her as she mounts her horse. Once she's settled, her head turns to face her sister. "He'll suffer for it," she says, calmly. "A thousand times over."

Sansa nods, swallowing. In front of them, Jon mounts his horse. Together, the party following behind them, they march through the gates of Castle Black.

* * *

 **A/N:** Rose is about to become an official game-player. I am so flipping excited for this second half of the series! Did Rose make the right choice sending Littlefinger away? Will she realise she's made a mistake? Or, will Sansa be doing some scheming behind her back? Also, why do you think the Ironborn couldn't find Rickon in the dungeons? Let me know your thoughts!


	56. Blood of My Blood

**A/N:** references to violence.

* * *

 **Blood of My Blood**

"I'm angry that horrible people can treat good people that way and get away with it."

* * *

 _He brings the whip down, hard on her hip. She can feel the metal tip tearing at her skin. Rose grits her teeth, trying not to cry out, but the scream comes anyway. Ramsay grips the back of her hair, pulling her head back, his fingers scratching her scalp . . ._

 _Rose presses her lips shut, sweat and tears dripping down her face. Ramsay reaches around and sinks his fingers into the thin wound on the back of her thigh. She wriggles against the sting, clenching tightly onto the chains . . ._

 _Ramsay looks her over, leaning close to her, and she feels his face brushing against her neck. Rose grimaces, feeling bile rising to her throat. Abruptly, he nips at her ear, and she gasps at the sudden pain . . ._

* * *

Her wrists are in a vice-like grip against the bed. She struggles against whatever is holding her back, her throat raw with screaming, her cheeks streaked with tears. Someone is shouting her name, a familiar voice that makes her eyes snap open.

The tent is dimly lit with the morning sunrise. Sansa sits over her, her breathing laboured from wrestling to keep her still. Quickly, she releases her wrists, watching as Rose straightens up into a sitting position. The cold air washes around her, cooling her burning skin. She shudders, violently against it.

Her sore eyes flutter upwards to meet Sansa, who gazes back at her with a knowing grimace.

* * *

In the early afternoon, with nothing to do and time to be wasted, Jon and Rose swing their swords at one another in the open field, amidst the scattered men and tents. Although her body is mostly healed, the disturbing recollections of her nightmare prevent her from performing at her best — she is half standing there, with a sword in her hand, and half back in that room, with Ramsay doing unspeakable things to her.

Luckily, Jon seems reluctant to put her in even the slightest danger, his brow furrowed as he blocks her blows without swiping at her, once. "Everything alright?" he asks, after a while.

Rose staggers backwards, wiping her brow. "Just wondering when your skills started slacking," she teases, giving him a grin.

Jon smiles too, but it looks forced. "Sansa told me about your nightmares."

Rose rolls her eyes. "That girl could not keep a secret to save her life," she murmurs, raising her sword to swing it again.

Redthorn clashes noisily with Longclaw, the wielders pivoting on their feet to strike out. She spins around to slam her sword into Jon from the side, but he blocks it, forcing the blade back down with a loud scrape. "She's worried about you, is all," he pants. "I am, too."

"You don't need to be," Rose snaps, through gritted teeth. "I'm alive. After everything that's happened, I should be grateful."

Raising her sword, she swings it again, harder this time. He quickly blocks the blow, but she lashes at him with such ferocity, he finds himself staggering backwards. She only stops when the tip of her blade nearly catches him in the throat.

"You sure?" Jon asks, chuckling, nervously. "Come at me any harder, and my head will be rolling across the damned field." Ignoring him, she swings, and their blades clatter again as their feet move beneath them, circling one another. "If you want, we can drop the swords and talk," he continues, between pants. "Like a real brother and sister. There are better ways to sound off than this."

"Talking isn't your area of expertise," Rose hisses.

Jon frowns, raising his sword to defend herself as she swings hers, over his head. He manages to duck in time, but feels the steel brushing against his hair. "I know you've had a hard time. I'm only saying—"

"I said I'm _fine_!"

As the words leave her lips, her sword slices against his leg. Jon hisses in pain, staggering backwards, clutching the thin wound. When he pulls his hand away, it comes back bloody. Rose holds her breath, utterly horrified with herself. His eyes meet hers, and he lets out an exasperated sigh.

* * *

Rose stands over the table, looking down at the wide, illustrated map spread across it. Her fingers dance over the Northern regions, a frown on her face. She glances up when she hears soft footsteps entering, her sister rubbing her hands together against the cold.

"I keep thinking about what Littlefinger said," Rose says, quietly. "About Jon, about Riverrun." She bites down on her lower lip. "I'm his wife. The Knights of the Vale are mine, as much as they are his." She looks up, grimacing. "Do you think it was irresponsible of me to turn him away?"

"You did the right thing," Sansa insists. "He can't be trusted. Not after all he's done."

Rose stares back down at the map, with a sigh. "Smaller houses who haven't declared for the Boltons are more likely to be convinced if they believe we have a fair chance of winning. With the Knights of the Vale at our backs, we'll have a better chance of saving Rickon, taking back Winterfell, _and_ uniting the North."

Sansa shakes her head. "It's a risk. Littlefinger isn't a man who wears his intentions on his sleeve. If we rely on him now, he could use this against us in the future. To try and manipulate us further."

"I know what he wants, Sansa."

She circles the table to stand in front of her. "He's playing us into his hands again. We can't fall for it."

"Even if it could save the North?"

"His schemes come with a price. A price _we'll_ have to pay."

Rose clenches her fists, which rest against the table. Her chest constricts when she looks down at the small painting of Winterfell, her finger stretching out to brush against it.

"When I was Ramsay's prisoner, he asked me why I married him," she says, in a small voice. "I didn't say a word. How could I? If he knew the Vale would back our claim to such an extent, he would have locked his army behind Winterfell's gates and never goaded us into a fight. Starved us out, like animals." When she looks up, Sansa is gazing back at her, her brow creased. "I'm concerned that we've turned our back on our greatest hope . . . maybe our _only_ hope . . . for the sake of our pride."

Sansa presses her lips together. "He may have a funny way of showing it, but Littlefinger adores you," she says, struggling to keep the disgust out of her voice. "That much is clear. Call on him and his army, and they'll come running to the rescue. If you truly believe it's the right thing to do."

Rose tilts her head. "And what do you believe?"

Sansa smiles, dimly. "I believe in you."

* * *

Rose pulls her nightgown over her head, yanking it down to her legs. Instinctively, she finds herself glancing at her reflection in the long mirror, and feels sick. Her ugly, jagged wounds — each of them holds a horrid memory; how they'd gotten there in the first place, and the violent recollections tear through her mind. It had been a while since she last assessed them, and now they had morphed into lasting scars across her body.

Quickly, she picks up her robe to pull it on, but it's too late. Her eyes remained trained on her damaged skin.

Burn marks across her back . . . _she flinches at the tearing sound as he rips the fabric, easily with his hands . . ._ jagged cuts on her arms and legs . . . _reaching down, he unsheathes a dagger from his belt . . ._ harsh, crimson welts lines covering her hips . . . _a scream tears through Rose's throat, the pain blinding and instantaneous, like a stab of a white-hot knife_ . . . and the lingering ache in her body . . . _without warning, he shoves his hand up her shift and thrusts two fingers inside of her . . ._

Her heart is slamming against her ribs, her chest constricting, making it difficult to breathe. Rose rubs at her throat, sucking in as much air as she can muster. Her hands feel strange and tingly like there should be goosebumps all over them.

At that moment, someone ducks into the tent. She catches the alarm on his face before she quickly shoves on her robe, wrapping it around herself. Spinning around, she tries to compose herself, forcing a smile.

Jon averts his gaze to the ground. "I came to say goodnight," he murmurs.

Rose sniffs, folding her arms over her chest. "Did you?"

"No." Jon steps further into the room, watching her like she's wildfire about to explode. "I'm not good at this, Rose. You know that. But, I don't want you to feel ashamed, or . . . or feel that you need to — you know . . ." he stammers over his words, his face turning red. He huffs, frustrated and tries again, "If you want to talk, I — I'd _like_ you to talk about it—"

Rose frowns. "Why do you need to hear it at all?"

"Because I need to know how badly I failed you," he snaps, so suddenly it makes her flinch. Finally, his eyes meet hers, and he shakes his head, looking oddly angry. "Any other brother hears his sister is locked up in a torture chamber, and they'd go running to the rescue. What did I do? Where was I when you needed me the most? Both of you."

Rose blinks, bewildered. "You were a brother of the Night's Watch, Jon. They would have killed you if you tried to leave. Even if it was the noble thing."

Jon's eyes drift shut. He takes a few bracing breaths, then opens them again. "Stannis offered to naturalise me," he says, flatly. "To give me the Stark name and Winterfell if I bent the knee. I refused." He swallows, thickly. "I could've saved you. I could've saved Sansa. I chose not to."

Rose stares back at him. For a split second, she is filled with indignation. Something she has never felt for the man standing in front of her. For her brother, who she adores. It makes her wince; how potent it is. Quickly, she forces herself to come to her senses.

"You didn't see what happened on that field," she whispers, hoarsely. "Ramsay crushed Stannis and his men. He would've crushed you, too. Keeping your vows was the right thing to do."

Jon gazes at her. He takes a few bold steps towards her, his breath trembling. "I am so sorry."

Rose shakes her head. "No one forced me to leave the Fingers," she says. Although she doesn't want to cry, her voice betrays her as it shakes, the vision of him blurring against prickling tears. "I did that of my own free will. Everything that happened to me was of my own doing."

"It's not." Jon puts a hand on her shoulder. "Rose. It's not."

She looks up at him, into those sincere, brown eyes, wishing she believed him. Before he can see the tears sliding down her cheeks, her arms circle his waist and she nestles against him. His arms wrap around her, his hand stroking the back of her hair, and she is taken back to Riverrun . . . to Robb holding onto her, her brother, and the overwhelming feeling of being home again.

* * *

 **A/N:** I was kinda mad when they didn't have a little playful sparring scene between Jon and Arya in the final season, so THAT scene was, admittedly, for selfish purposes. Anyway, Rose is second-guessing sending Littlefinger packing. Will she call on him and his army? If she does, what will he expect from her in return?


	57. The Broken Man

**The Broken Man**

"Violence is a disease. You don't cure a disease by spreading it to more people."

* * *

As hard as she tries, Rose cannot understand how she managed to end up here. In the middle of a wildling camp, surrounding a fire with wildings, her brother, her sister and a handful of their own men. Glancing her way, she can see that Sansa is equally perturbed, standing quietly at Jon's side, her eyes flickering, anxiously between the Free Folk. Especially the giant squatting over a tree stump nearby.

"We said we'd fight with you, King Crow, when the time comes, and we meant it. But, this isn't what we agreed to. These aren't White Walkers. This isn't an army of the dead. This isn't our fight."

"If it weren't for him, none of us would be here," Tormund says, sharply. "All of you would be meat in the Night King's army. And, I'd be a pile of charred bones, just like Mance."

Dim Dalba arches an eyebrow. "Remember Mance's camp? It stretched all the way to the horizon. And, look at us now. Look what's left of us." He gestures with his arms, at the small number of wildling tents and fires across the snow spread. "And, if we lose this, we're gone. Dozens of tribes, hundreds of generations. Be like we were never there at all. We'll be the last of the Free Folk."

"That's what'll happen to you if we lose," Jon says, speaking for the first time. All heads turn in his direction. "The Boltons, the Karstarks, the Umbers, they know you're here. They know that more than half of you are women and children. After they finish with me, they'll come for you." He grimaces under the miserable looks on their faces. "You're right. This isn't your fight. You shouldn't have to come to Winterfell with me. I shouldn't be asking you. It's not the deal we made. But, I need you with me if we're gonna beat them, and we need to beat them if you're gonna survive."

Dim Dalba stares at him, thinking. His gaze darts to Tormund, who says, "the Crows killed him because he spoke for the free folk when no other Southerners would." He circles the fire, gesturing towards Jon. "He died for us. If we are not willing to do the same for him, we're _cowards_." The word seems to rattle the wildlings, who squirm on their feet and mutter, disgruntled. "And if that's what we are, we deserve to be the last of the Free Folk," he finishes, plainly.

There's a prolonged silence, in which the only sound comes from the crackle of the fire. Eventually, the giant, Wun Wun, pulls himself up on his enormous feet, towering well above everyone. Rose feels her heart doing funny jumps in her chest at the full sight of him. "Snow," he says, in a rumbling voice that shakes the ground, and nods his head.

Rose's lips twitch upwards into a grin. Then, the giant crosses the camp in several large strides, heading away. The wildings watch him leave, and turn to one another, having a silent conversation amongst themselves. Dim Dalba marches straight up to Jon and offers his hand. With a small, relieved smile, Jon shakes it.

The wildlings scatter, disappearing into the camp. Tormund looks back over his shoulder. "Are you sure they'll come?" Jon asks him.

"We're not clever like you Southerners," he teases. "When we say we'll do something, we do it." A huge grin spreads across his face. He gives Rose a small wink before following after his wildling comrades.

* * *

If Rose thought the capital was beautiful, it is nothing compared to Bear Island. The gnarled oaks, flowering thorn bushes, tall pines and steep hills with running streams takes her breath away.

The four of them enter the audience chambers — herself, Jon, Sansa, and Ser Davos, who looks a little out of place amongst the Northern lords and ladies. At the front of the room, seated behind the high table, is a girl no more than twelve-years-old. She has sharp, pointed features, a wealth of dark hair and beady eyes that penetrate Rose's, as though she can read her mind.

"Lady Mormont," Jon greets, dipping into a slight bow.

Lyanna remains aloof. "Welcome to Bear Island."

A thick silence rings out, which makes Rose swallow. Jon turns his head, looking towards his sisters, at a loss for words. "I remember when you were born, My Lady," Sansa pipes up. "You were named for our Aunt Lyanna. It was said she was a great beauty. I'm sure you will be, too."

"I doubt it," Lyanna snaps. "My mother wasn't a great beauty or any other kind of beauty. She was a great warrior, though. She died fighting for your brother, Robb."

Rose flinches. Jon looks to her, but all she can do is lift her shoulders into a half-shrug, not knowing what to do. "I served your uncle at Castle Black, Lady Lyanna," he says, his voice wavering. "He was also a great warrior. An honourable man. I was his steward. In fact, I—"

"I think we've had enough small talk," Lyanna interrupts. "Why are you here?"

Jon hesitates. "Stannis Baratheon garrisoned at Castle Black before he marched on Winterfell and was killed. He showed me the letter you wrote to him when he petitioned for men. It said—"

"I remember what it said. 'Bear Island knows no king but the King in the North, whose name is Stark'."

Jon nods. "Robb is gone, but House Stark is not. And, it needs your support now more than ever." He nods his head towards Rose and Sansa. "I've come with my sisters to ask for House Mormont's allegiance."

Lyanna's eyes swivel to them. Quickly, she turns to the maester sat at her side, and exchanges a brief, whispered conversation with him. Her face sets and she sits back in her chair. "As far as I understand, you're a Snow," she concludes. "Lady Rose is a Baelish, and Lady Sansa is a Bolton. Or, is she a Lannister? I've heard conflicting reports."

Sansa stiffens. "I did what I had to do to survive, My Lady. But, I am a Stark. I will always be a Stark."

"If you say so. In any case, you don't just want my allegiance. You want my fighting men."

Jon scowls. He opens his mouth to respond, but Rose beats him to it. "You're right," she says, plainly. "We need both if we're going to survive. Winterfell does not belong in the hands of someone like Ramsay Bolton. I've been in those hands myself, as has my sister." She hears Sansa's sharp intake of breath but continues. "It's a fate we wouldn't wish on anyone, and certainly not on our people. Not on the North. It is our duty to put an end to his command. Even more so because our brother, Rickon Stark, is currently rotting in his dungeons."

Lyanna tilts her head. "If your duty, Lady Rose, is to the North, why marry a man with no sway in Northern affairs?"

Rose's eyes narrow. "Why did I marry the most well-informed man in Westeros after fleeing the capital and the family that murdered mine?" she asks, coolly, then feigns a shrug. "Blame it on common sense, My Lady."

Lyanna's hands tighten around the arms of her chair. Out of the corner of her eye, Rose can see Jon glaring at her, exasperated. With a small sigh, he turns back to Lady Mormont. "What you have to understand, My Lady, is that—"

"I understand that I'm responsible for Bear Island and all who live here," she barks, angrily. "So, why should I sacrifice one more Mormont life for someone else's war?"

More silence. Rose feels her palms sweating at her side.

Before it can become too much to bear, Davos steps forward. "If it please, My Lady," he begins, tentatively. "I understand how you feel."

Lyanna frowns. "I don't know you. Ser—?"

"Davos, My Lady, of House Seaworth. You needn't ask your maester about my house," he insists, when she turns to do so. "It's rather new."

Lyanna sits back in her seat. "Alright, Ser Davos of House Seaworth. How is it you understand how I feel?"

"You never thought you'd find yourself in your position," he replies, gently. "Being responsible for so many lives at such a young age. I never thought I'd be in my position. I was a crabber's son, then I was a smuggler. And now, I find myself addressing the Lady of a great house in time of war. But, I'm here because this isn't someone else's war. It's our war."

Lyanna nods, slowly. "Go on, Ser Davos."

"Your uncle, Lord Commander Mormont, made that man his steward," he says, pointing to Jon. "He chose Jon to be his successor because he knew he had the courage to do what was right, even if it meant giving his life. Because, Jeor Mormont and Jon Snow both understood that the real war isn't between a few squabbling houses. It's between the living and the dead." He grimaces. "And, make no mistake, My Lady, the dead are coming."

Lyanna peers at him, thinking. Then, she turns to Jon. "Is this true?"

Jon nods, solemnly. "Your uncle fought them at the Fist of the First Men," he rasps. "I fought them at Hardhome. We both lost."

Rose sees the sheer glassiness in his eyes. Biting down on her lower lip, she steps forward. "The North will be forever divided, so long as the Boltons hold Winterfell. A North that is divided stands no chance against the coming storm. You want to protect your people, My Lady. Just as I want to protect mine. We don't do that by shutting ourselves away in our castles, like cowards." She lifts her chin a little. "We do what any good rulers would do. We fight, and we do it side-by-side. Together, as a united North."

The maester leans in to whisper in Lyanna's ear, but she holds up her hand to stop him, eyes trained in the Northmen standing in front of her. "House Mormont has kept faith with House Stark for a thousand years," she says, pausing for a moment. "We will not break faith today."

Rose lets out the breath she didn't know she was holding. "Thank you, My Lady." She smiles, bowing her head. "This means a great deal to us." Turning her head, she shares a proud beam with Sansa.

"How many fighting men can we expect?" Jon asks, equally relieved.

Lyanna leans closer to the knight sitting at her side, who whispers in her ear, then turns back to face them. "Sixty-two."

Rose's smile dims.

"Sixty-two?" Jon repeats.

"We are not a large house, but we're a proud one," Lyanna declares. "And every man from Bear Island fights with the strength of ten mainlanders."

Rose arches an eyebrow. "I suppose sixty-two bears are better than an army of sheep."

Davos nods in agreement. "If they're half as ferocious as their lady, the Boltons are doomed."

* * *

"The answer is no."

"Lord Glover, if you could just hear us out—"

"I've heard enough," Glover barks. "We've only just taken back this castle from the Ironborn. The Boltons helped us do it. Now, you want me to fight against them? I could be skinned for even talking to you."

"You would bow to traitors?" Rose asks, incredulously. Her fists clench at her sides. "To murderers, like the Boltons, and contest your rightful rulers?"

Glover raises his brow, bemused. "Rulers, are you?" With a mocking chuckle that makes her wince, he turns to look at Jon. "Have other Northern houses pledged to fight for you?"

Jon swallows. "House Mormont."

"And?"

"We sent ravens to Houses Manderly—"

"I don't care about ravens," Glover snaps, impatient. "You're asking me to join your army. Who is fighting in this army?"

Jon glances to Davos, who stands, silently at his side. "The bulk of the force is made up of wildings," he replies, in a small voice.

Glover chuckles again, this time more sneering. It boils the blood in Rose's veins. "Then the rumours are true," he murmurs. "I didn't dare believe them. I received you out of respect for your father. Now, I would like you to leave. House Glover will not abandon its ancestral home to fight alongside wildlings," he growls.

He turns on his heel and heads for the stone steps leading up to the castle.

Jon's jaw sets. "Lord Glover, I—"

"There's nothing else to say."

"I would remind you that House Glover is pledged to House Stark," Sansa snarls. All heads whip around to stare at her. "Sworn to answer when called upon."

Lord Glover stops in his tracks. He spins back around and descends the stone steps, a murderous look on his face. Her teeth gritted, Rose moves to stand closer to Sansa, who lifts her chin in defiance. At their side, Jon sighs, frustrated.

Glover stops, directly in front of her. "Yes, my family served House Stark for centuries," he says, smoothly. "We wept when we heard of your father's death. When my brother was Lord of this castle, he answered Robb's call and hailed him King in the North." His brow furrows, his eyes gleaming, as he steps even closer. "And where was King Robb when the Ironborn attacked this castle? When they threw my wife and children in prison and brutalised and killed our subjects? Taking up with a foreign whore. Getting himself and those who followed him killed."

Rose purses her lips. She takes a tentative step forward.

"Robb wanted to march back North to free the captured castles from the Ironborn," she says, softly. Glover's head turns to look at her. Her heart begins hammering in her chest, but she continues, her voice getting stronger. "But, he trusted in the advice of Roose Bolton and stayed in the South. I know he made selfish choices that cost him his life and the lives of those under his protection, but _that_ . . . putting faith in the Boltons, was his true mistake. Thousands more will be brutalised and killed so long as they hold Winterfell. House Stark is here to make sure that doesn't happen."

Glover stares down at her, his face pained. "I served House Stark once, but House Stark is dead."

The words are like a sharp stab to the stomach. Rose can do nothing as Lord Glover turns and walks back up the stone steps. Biting down on her lip, she looks to Jon, who gazes back at her with a furrowed brow, flinching when the castle doors slam shut.

* * *

Rose is relieved when they finally stop to make camp again, at a point between the mountains beyond Winterfell. The snow is thick as their horses wade through it, and the sky grows darker as more clouds gather above it.

"Stannis camped here on his way to Winterfell," Davos says.

Sansa arches an eyebrow. "And that's a good thing?"

"He was the most experienced commander in Westeros. He chose this place for a reason. Those mountains are a natural fortification. There's a stream down there for the horses."

"Ramsay rode a mere 20 men into his camp and defeated him before the battle had even begun," Rose points out. She tries to ignore it, but her chest begins constricting at the mention of his name. "They must have known what they were doing if no one even sounded an alarm. If he finds out we're here . . ."

Jon tilts his head to look at her. "We're not staying long," he promises to the troubled look on her face. "Another storm could hit any day."

"Aye," Davos agrees. "The snows defeated Stannis as much as the Boltons did."

Rose grimaces. "Still. 20 men. What could Ramsay do with 40? Take over the damn Eyrie?" Her hands clench, instinctively around the reins. With a sigh, she turns to Davos. "Gather some volunteers to guard the camp after sunset, to keep a look-out."

Davos nods as their horses come to a stop in the middle of the camp, away from the deep blanket of snow. "We have to march on Winterfell now while we still can," Jon says, as the four of them dismount and head across the camp.

"2000 wildlings," Davos muses. "200 Hornwoods, 143 Mazins—"

"62 Mormonts," Sansa adds, bitterly.

Davos grimaces. "It's not what we'd hoped for," he admits. "But, we still have a chance if we're careful and smart." His head whips around at the sound of raised voices coming from behind them. "For fuck's sake," he grumbles.

He dashes off in the direction of the brawl emerging from the opposite end of the camp between a wildling and one of the Northmen. Jon sighs, irritated, and keeps walking, his sisters following after him.

"So, he's your most trusted advisor now?" Sansa asks. "Because he secured 62 men from a 10-year-old?"

"Ser Davos is the reason I'm standing here talking to you, and he served Stannis for years," Jon snaps.

"Stannis," Sansa repeats. "Who lost the Blackwater, who murdered his own brother, who doesn't have a head?"

"And who ensured Robert's victory in the rebellion, while saving our house from being wiped out by the Mad King," Rose says, tersely. "He was a man our father thought was worth dying for."

Sansa halts in her tracks, shaking her head. "That's not what — it's not enough," she protests. She grabs Rose's wrist and gives a sharp tug to make her stop. "We need more men."

Rose bites down on her lower lip. Sucking in the cold air, she looks to their brother, who has stopped a small distance ahead of them. "She's right, Jon," she sighs. "We take these men to battle, and we take them to their deaths. I'm not comfortable having all that blood on my hands, even if it is to reclaim our home."

"There's no time," Jon insists.

"The North has to come first," Rose barks, her eyes narrowing. "And we cannot defend it with this lot alone."

"If we went down to Castle Cerwyn, I know that Lord—"

Jon crosses over to them in two large strides. "We fight with the army we have," he thunders. Something over their shoulders catches his eye — the brawl behind them increases in volume. Giving Rose and Sansa one last hard glare, he rounds past them and stalks off.

Sansa watches him leave. "He's damned stubborn."

Rose wrings her hands, huffing. The squawk of a bird draws her attention. Her head swivels around to see the Mormont men unloading crates of ravens near their small sets of tents. Her heart sinking, she swallows. "There is another way."

Sansa presses her lips together. "You heard Jon. He'd never agree to it."

"I don't care," Rose fumes. "If he's so stubborn that he can't look past his own opinion, that's his mistake. Our people should come first." Sansa visibly flinches. Rose lets out a trembling breath, which creates fog in the cold air. "You're right. I can never trust Littlefinger, not after all he's done to us. There comes a point where we have to put our pride aside and think about what's right. For the North."

Sansa's brow furrows. Looking anguished, she glances from the crate of ravens, back to Rose, and gives her a small, timid nod. "The North."

* * *

 _Petyr,_

 _You promised to protect me and have failed. You promised to protect my sister and have failed. Now, you have a chance to fulfil your promise._

 _The wolves march north to cross swords with the flayed man on the field of battle. The Knights of the Vale are under your command. Ride for Winterfell immediately. Lend us your aid and I shall see to it that you are fittingly rewarded._

 _My duties to you will be honoured once you've fought at my side._

 _Your wife, Rose._

* * *

 **A/N:** I didn't want to change too much of Sansa's storyline, but it just made sense for Rose to be the one to call on Littlefinger for help. Would Rose truly force herself to go back to him, should he come to the rescue? Or, is she just telling him what he wants to hear?


	58. No One

**No One**

"I choose violence."

* * *

Rose enters the tent, having been sparring with Tormund, to find Sansa standing over the spread of maps, and Jon nowhere in sight. Her brow is furrowed in concentration, her lips pursed. "What's that face for?"

She jumps like she didn't even notice her entering. "I sent Brienne to the Riverlands to convince the Blackfish into aiding us," she murmurs, circling the table. "That was months ago. Haven't heard anything from her."

"Brienne's a big girl," Rose sighs, sheathing her sword. She wipes the sweat from her brow. "I'm sure she can handle herself." Then, she pauses. "You didn't tell me that. About sending word to the Blackfish."

"Ready to criticise me for secret-keeping?" Sansa drawls, irritated. "When were you planning on telling Jon about the Knights of the Vale?"

Rose shrugs, stripping off her gloves and tossing them onto the table. "He'd put a stop to it. He's a proper Northmen. He doesn't trust outsiders."

"Except wildlings."

Rose hums a laugh. She leans against the table, looking down at the monuments representing each house. "2405 men," she muses. "407, if we include Jon and Ser Davos."

"And you?"

"I can't. I need to be there when Littlefinger arrives." Wincing, she gazes up at Sansa. "I'd feel much better if you were with me, too. So, I know where you are when it all begins."

Sansa nods, smiling. "Of course."

Rose catches her bottom lip between her teeth. "Jon sent word to the Boltons," she says, quietly. "Ramsay has granted us an audience with him and his bannermen so we can discuss the terms of battle."

Sansa lets out a shaky breath. "He'll try to intimidate him into submission. Into surrendering me."

"Jon will stand his ground," Rose insists.

Sansa frowns back at her. She hesitates, then circles the table towards her. "We should prepare for the worst, Rose," she whispers. "If Littlefinger doesn't make it on time—"

"He will."

"Or, if he does, and we lose anyway—"

"Sansa." Rose puts her hand on her shoulder, looking her, squarely in the eye. "This will work. I promise."

Her sister stares back at her, unconvinced, the world having turned her into a sceptic.

* * *

The snow manages to drift to a stop by the time night falls. Rose wraps a shawl around herself, stepping out of the tent to find a large fire burning in the centre of the camp. Looking around, she's pleased to see Davos has obeyed her command, and stationed various men outside the camp to keep a look-out. She smiles at them, and they, in turn, bow their heads as she passes.

The night itself is bitter and cold, but the closer she gets to the fire, the warmer she becomes. Stars hang in the sky, flickering over the mountains, illuminating the snow into a wintry blue.

Sitting on a log in front of the fire is Jon, his dark eyes trained on the flames, watching the smoke rise in soft waves. He glances up when he hears her approaching and looks somewhat relieved to see it's her. "Where's Sansa?"

"Resting."

Jon watches her walking around the fire towards him. "You come here to scold me some more?"

Rose shakes her head. She sits down next to him. "Came for a drink." Before he can react, she takes his cup from him and swigs it. The ale burns down her throat, and she screws up her face against the taste, forcing it back. "This is absolute piss," she complains.

Jon chuckles, surprised at her foul language. "Aye." He takes it back from her. "Does the job, though."

Rose smiles a half-smile. Clearing her throat, she looks into the flames, feeling the sudden warmth turning her cheeks red. They sit together, relishing the silence for a while, until she finally turns to look at him. He has a frown on his face, staring down at his boots.

"I know that Sansa can be tiresome," Rose says, gently. "But, she's understandably terrified of what will happen to her if we lose. You are, too." He doesn't look at her, but his warm brown eyes gleam over, and he squirms in his seat. "Jon."

"I can't," he rasps, shaking his head. "I can't talk about this. Not now."

"You've never hidden anything from me. Not even when we were children. It's not like us to have secrets."

"Secrets," Jon scoffs. "Like you, snitching ravens from the Mormonts after dark and not telling me about it. Don't deny it," he half-pleads, when she opens her mouth to do so. "I saw you slipping back into your tent."

Rose closes her mouth. "Fine," she sighs, exasperated. "We have . . . _some_ secrets, but we talk about the things that matter. The things that eat away at us." Her chest fills with a familiar, saddening ache. "I told you everything that Ramsay did to me, thinking that was still true. Was I wrong?"

Jon's eyes drift shut. "No, you weren't wrong." He opens them again and leans forward, his arms rested on his legs. Rose watches him, waiting. "I promised Sansa I'd watch over her," he says, quietly. "I promised that Ramsay'll never get his hands on you again. There's a good chance I'm going to die, and those promises will be broken."

Rose blinks, then grins. "You sound like Robb," she whispers. "It took a lot for him to accept that I was no longer the girl he grew up with. To trust that I can take care of myself."

"Wish you didn't have to," Jon confesses. "I wish I'd been there more for you."

Rose chews on her bottom lip. She gazes into the flames, watching the charred logs fall and crackle beneath them. "The more you try to control people, the more they'll pull away from you," she says, echoing Robb's words, aloud, tears beginning to sting her eyes. "You'll grow to hate each other and do things you regret. I don't want . . . that can't be our way," she finishes, looking at Jon.

His head tilts to stare back at her. Swallowing back the lump in her throat, Rose puts a gentle hand on his back, rubbing comforting circles there. "I appreciate your promises, but I never asked you to make them. You mustn't keep beating yourself up every time someone you love gets hurt. Especially when it's not your fault."

Jon winces. "It will be my fault if we fall."

Rose shakes her head. "We won't," she swears.

He straightens up, still brooding. Rose sighs and dips her head onto his shoulder, the furs of his cloak soothing her flushed face. Again, a comfortable silence falls between them. For a moment, she thinks that if she closes her eyes, she could fall asleep like that, listening to the snapping of the flames—

"Rose." His voice draws her back to the present. "Don't hate me, but . . ." sitting up, she watches as he digs something out from underneath his cloak; a sealed piece of parchment, and hands it to her, "just another thing I thought you might need protecting from."

With a frown, Rose takes it and turns it over. Her breath catches at the emblem sealing it together: the Greyjoy kraken. Eyes blazing, she looks at Jon, accusingly. He gives her what he hopes is an apologetic smile.

"It won't happen again," he promises.

Rose stares down at the parchment in her hands, her heart beginning to hammer against her ribs. Jon slowly rises to his feet and circles the fire, heading back towards his tent, leaving her to it. She waits until he is gone before opening it with trembling hands.

The mere sight of Theon's handwriting makes her want to bawl.

* * *

 _To Rose of House Stark, the true Lady of Winterfell and Wardeness of the North,_

 _I do not know how this letter will find you. As a woman preparing for battle or a Lady with the entire North at her feet. I favour the latter._

 _Yara and I are sailing to Meereen with the Iron Fleet to forge an alliance with the Dragon Queen before Euron reaches her himself. We do not know how she will receive us, but we hope it is with civility._

 _When I started writing this letter, there was something I longed to tell you. Something I have dreaded to say since the moment I met you. Now, as I write, I realise I cannot do it this way. It is something which needs to be said to your face. Perhaps, I should have said it before leaving Winterfell, but that cannot be helped now._

 _So, I write with a promise, in the knowledge that you will do everything within your power to liberate your home._

 _Since we parted, I have lost sleep thinking of what you suffered. Thinking of all the ways I could have been there for you, but failed. I would do anything to take what has happened to you and put it all on myself._

 _With that in mind, from this day, until my last day, I promise to always come to your aid. I promise to answer your call and shield your back. To defend your home. To try, until my dying breath, to make up for the terrible things I have done to your family. Even if I can no longer kiss you, or hold you the way I long to._

 _I will be there as a friend, as an ally, as your counsel. Yara, the rightful Queen of Salt and Rock, and I extend this truce to you, the trueborn Lady of Winterfell, and House Stark. May the North and the Iron Islands be at peace once our homes have been rescued from those who took them from us._

 _Even though you belong to another, you will forever be my lady. And I your lord, for as long as you choose to embrace me. Tell me when you are done being the hero your people need. I will cross the oceans, as promised._

 _Yours,_

 _Theon of House Greyjoy_

* * *

Her thumb brushes over his signed name, tears brimming in her eyes. She swallows back the sobs, refusing to let herself break again. It feels as though her heart is about to burst with delirium, and it stretches out across the North, past Westeros, into the sea he's wandering.

 _There was something I longed to tell you . . . something I have dreaded to say since the moment I met you._

 _I feel it, too. Gods, I hope he knows that I feel it, too._

* * *

 **A/N:** Battle of the Bastards tomorrow! Will Rose contribute anything else other than (hopefully) the Knights of the Vale?


	59. Battle of the Bastards

**A/N:** contains strong violence (duh!), reference to sexual violence.

* * *

 **Battle of the Bastards**

"My reign has just begun."

* * *

The second the banners come thundering down the field and his face appears among them, she feels as though she'll be sick. "You don't have to be here," she can hear Jon saying.

And Sansa's flat response, "Yes, I do."

Rose's breath comes out trembling, creating warm fog in the crisp air. Clenching onto the reins, she turns her head to look at Sansa, who stares back at her, her brow furrowed. Swallowing, Rose lifts her chin. "We'll make him pay for it," she whispers.

Sansa nods, her face like hardened steel.

The horses come closer, and his pale, taunting face comes, clearly into view. Rose forces herself to look, directly at it, without daring to even blink, as he comes to a smooth halt in front of them. That same, constricting feeling claws at her chest.

 _. . . Ramsay draws back his fist and slams it into her abdomen. Her mouth opens in a soundless scream, the pain tearing through her belly . . ._

Rose swallows back the memories.

"My beloved wife," Ramsay calls, all smiles. At her side, Sansa visibly tenses, but her face does not once give away her fear. "I've missed you terribly."

Then, his eyes flicker to Rose.

 _. . . The whip whistles, and slams across her stomach. A sound, half a scream, half a sob, tears through her chest. She squeezes her eyes shut, willing the pain away . . ._

She glares back at him, her teeth gritted. For a split second, he looks disappointed — as though he expected her to be more broken than she is. The flash in his eyes comes and goes as he looks to Jon, instead.

"Thank you for returning Lady Bolton safely," he says, politely. "Now, dismount and kneel before me. Surrender your army and proclaim me the true Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. I will pardon you for deserting the Night's Watch. I will pardon these treasonous lords for betraying my house."

Jon remains silent. His hands are gripping the reins so tightly, Rose imagines his knuckles are white under his riding gloves.

Ramsay sighs. "Come, bastard. You don't have the men, you don't have the horses, and you don't have Winterfell. Why lead those poor souls into slaughter? There's no need for a battle. Get off your horse, and kneel." A horrid smile twists up his lips. "I'm a man of mercy."

 _. . . The flat of his palm slams across her cheek, so hard, she can taste blood in her mouth . . . she's barely lifted her head when he hits her again, across the other cheek. Her head reels with the sting of it . . ._

Rose bites down on her lip, feeling light-headed. Every word that pours out of his mouth makes the scars prickle all over her body. She keeps looking at him, though she struggles to breath evenly.

"You're right," Jon says, managing to keep his voice calm. "There's no need for a battle. Thousands of men don't need to die. Only one of us. Let's end this the old way. You against me."

Rose's heart does a jolt in her chest. Unable to help herself, she casts Sansa a bewildered look, who appears to share in her surprise. A long silence, in which the wind whistles, gently in her ears, rings out.

Ramsay stares at each of them in turn, thinking. Then, he breaks out in a smile and lets out a chuckle. "I keep hearing stories about you, bastard. The way people in the North talk about you. You're the greatest swordsman who ever walked. Maybe you are that good. Maybe not. I don't know if I'd beat you. But, I know that my army will beat yours. I have 6000 men. You have, what, half that? Not even?"

"Aye, you have the numbers," Jon agrees. "Will your men want to fight for you when they hear you wouldn't fight for them?"

Rose holds her breath. Across from them, the smile vanishes from Ramsay's lips. He stares back at Jon, who has the hint of a smug grin on his face, considering. And that darkness in his eyes that Rose knows all too well.

 _. . . His hand trails over the glowing mark on her thigh . . . without warning, he shoves his hand up her shift and thrusts two fingers inside of her. Rose lets out a gasp of pain, shock clawing at her chest. She squirms against him, but he releases her almost immediately, with a dark chuckle . . ._

She has to bite down on her lip, her breathing becoming less and less controlled. Luckily for her, it doesn't seem anyone notices.

Ramsay laughs, again, waggling his finger. "He's good. Very good." Then, his hand drops to his lap. "Tell me, will you let your little brother die because you're too proud to surrender?"

"How do we know you have him?" Sansa asks.

Ramsay's gaze swivels to her. Rose watches, her teeth gritted, as a teasing, wet smile turns up his lips. _Don't look at my sister like that. I'll gouge out your eyeballs, you vicious bastard_ —

"Ask your sister," he says, softly.

His eyes are on her again. Rose forces herself to look into those dirty blue orbs piercing her, sucking in a breath.

 _. . . Ramsay pauses, his rough hand running over her exposed skin, contemplative. Then, he leans in, yanking her close, and bites down, hard on her shoulder. Rose cries out, feeling his teeth sinking in, hard enough to draw blood . . ._

"When the Ironborn rescued me from the dungeons, they said they couldn't find Rickon anywhere," she says, her voice sounding strangely distant to her own ears. "How do we know you haven't killed him already?"

Ramsay lifts an eyebrow. He looks to Smalljon Umber, who sits on a horse to his left, and gives him a nod. Umber reaches into the satchel fastened at his side. He tugs something, dark and bloodied, from it and tosses it to the ground in front of them.

A piercing ache stabs to Rose's stomach as she looks down at the direwolf's head, into those wide, empty eyes. A rigid silence rings out, again. When she looks up, Ramsay is staring at the three of them in turn, a smirk on his face.

"Now, if you want to save—"

"You're going to die tomorrow, Lord Bolton," Sansa says, plainly. All heads whip around to gape at her, but her cold eyes remain fixated on her husband. "Sleep well."

With that, her horse pivots around and she gallops off, heading back towards the camp. For a split second, Rose considers following her, but the sound of Ramsay's voice keeps her put.

"She's a fine woman, Sansa," he drawls. "The honour of having both your sisters in my bed will be glorious." Rose's head whips back around to face him. He stares back at her, and the memories of all he did to her becomes overwhelming. She has to grip onto the reins, afraid she'll suddenly collapse from her horse. "The Rose of Winterfell does like it rough," he sneers.

Jon sucks in a sharp breath. Rose's cheeks turn pink at his words, but the fear in her chest morphs into a simmering rage. "You should have killed me when you had the chance," she snarls, venom seeping into her tone.

"Rest assured, My Lady, your death will be lasting a rather long time," Ramsay replies, smoothly. Giving her one last smile, as though she's nothing more than an old friend, he looks to the rest of the party. "And you're all fine-looking men," he calls. "My dogs are desperate to meet you. I haven't fed them for seven days. They're ravenous. I wonder which parts they'll try first. Your eyes? Your balls?" he exclaims, chuckling, again. "We'll find out soon enough." He fixes Jon with a menacing glare. "In the morning, then, _bastard_."

The monster pivots on his horse, his men following suit, and gallops towards Winterfell. Rose watches them leave, her stomach now twisted into knots, her chest growing tighter and tighter. _I can't breathe._

Quickly, she turns her horse around and rides for the camp. She can hear the men following after her, the hooves kicking up the dusty snow. And, Jon. He rides at her side, glancing at her every now and then, but she refuses to meet his gaze as he struggles to keep up with her.

Eventually, he falls behind, and she starts riding faster, the closer and closer the camp comes into view. Her head reels, black stars appearing in front of her vision, like she's about to collapse. The second she passes the watchmen, she leaps from her horse, staggering to the ground.

"Rose," comes Jon's urgent voice, a distance behind her.

She ignores him. It's only when she begins running, the wind whipping against her face, that she realises tears are flooding down her cheeks. Her hand goes to her chest, feeling like her heart is about to explode out of it.

 _I'm dying . . . surely, this is what dying feels like . . ._

The blurred vision of her tent comes into view, near the stream. She claps a hand over her mouth to contain it, but the second her knees hit the ground, she keels over, vomiting onto the bank.

Half-retching, half-sobbing, she clutches onto the grass blades with her fists, hearing boots approaching from behind her. She doesn't need to look around to know that its Sansa, who gathers up her hair and holds it back, away from her face as she continues to hurl. Her hand rubs gentle, soothing circles on her back, whispering words of comfort. Rose screws her face up against the burning in her chest and throat.

Never, not once in her life, has she felt so weak.

* * *

"If he was smart, he'd stay inside the walls of Winterfell and wait us out."

"That's not his way," Davos sighs. "He knows the North is watching. If the other houses sense weakness on his part, they'll stop fearing him. He can't have that. Fear is his power."

"Or, his shortcoming," Rose pipes up. All eyes swivel to her. "The Northern lords and their men despise Ramsay, whether they fight for him or not," she explains. "If the tables turn in our favour—"

"It's not his men that worry me," Tormund interrupts, grimly. "It's his horses. I know what mounted knights can do to us." He looks to Davos, bitterly. "You and Stannis cut through us like piss through snow."

"We're digging trenches all along our flanks," says Jon. "They won't be able to hit us the way that Stannis hit you, in a double envelopment." He glances up to see Tormund staring, blankly back at him. "A pincer move," Jon tries again. Still, the look of confusion on the wildling's face doesn't change. Jon turns to Davos for help, but he says nothing, baffled. "They won't be able to hit us from the sides."

"Good," Tormund grunts.

Jon manages a small, half-smile. He looks back down at the spread of maps, illuminated with the candles dotted across the table.

"It's crucial that we let them charge at us," Davos adds. "They've got the numbers, we need the patience."

Rose watches her brother as he circles the table, considering. She glances across the room to see Sansa, standing in the shadows, a dubious look on her face.

"If we let him buckle our centre, he'll pursue," Davos continues. "Then, we'll have him surrounded on three sides."

Tormund turns to Jon. "Did you really think that cunt would fight you man to man?"

"No," Jon admits, tersely. "But, I wanted to make him angry. I want him coming at us full tilt." The look on his face suggests he cannot wait to get into a skirmish with him, but this droops when he notices his sisters staring at him from opposite corners of the room. He eyes settle on an exhausted-looking Rose. "Anything to add?"

Rose blinks, startled. A weak laugh escapes her. "I'm not a military girl," she croaks. "I trust you know what you're doing." Jon gives her a gentle nod. Her smile fades when she meets Sansa's gaze, who peers back and forth between her and Jon with pursed lips.

The group stares down at the monuments scattered across the map, a sense of heaviness in the air. "We should all get some sleep," Davos murmurs.

"Rest, Jon Snow." Tormund claps him on the back. "We need you sharp tomorrow."

The men begin to drift out of the tent, heading in opposite directions. Jon lets out a relieved sigh as they start to disband. Rose gets up from her seat, rubbing her hands, wearily over her face. She crosses over to her brother, whose soft eyes had barely left hers the entire day, and stretches up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. "I'll see you in the morning."

She shares a small, comforting smile with Sansa from across the room. "Goodnight," she whispers. Rose nods and follows the men out of the tent.

Davos glances over his shoulder when he hears her exiting. "You weren't expecting that," he muses. "For him to ask your opinion."

Rose shrugs, shivering against the cold air. "It was gracious of him."

"Hmh." Davos stops at her side, and she falters, too. "He sees the same thing everyone else does. The Rose of Winterfell is learning to talk like a queen."

Rose stares back at him, disconcerted. He bows his head a little, a warm smile on his lips, and disappears into the blackness of the camp.

* * *

Jon lies in his tent, staring upwards. As much as he'd love to shut his eyes, each time he does, his mind rattles with the imminent battle. Try as he might, he cannot stop thinking about Ramsay's gloating face, those biting words, the insults that boiled the blood in his veins. The things he'd promised to do to his sisters and his men. All the wildlings he'd died to protect.

Instinctively, his hand goes to trace the scars across his bare chest. Ramsay didn't seem like the sort of man to make empty threats.

With a huff, he buries his face in his hands. As his thoughts drift away, he hears a strange sound coming from the tent next to him. A muffled, high-pitched wailing. At first, he cannot put his finger on what it is.

The second he does, he leaps out of bed, head reeling. He grabs his shirt and begins to pull it over his head as he staggers out of the flap. The shrieking sound seems to get louder the closer he gets to her tent.

When he pushes his way inside, Rose is lying on the bed, on her stomach. Her back is to him, but he can see the redness in her face, the tears streaming down her cheeks, clenching onto the pillows for dear life. In her sleep, she is screaming a loud, throat-shredding scream that slams into Jon like a physical pain.

Madly, he rushes to her side and begins to shake her, feeling the jagged scars on her shoulders against his palms. "Rose," he whispers, frantically. She jerks to a wake, batting his hands away. Her big, blue eyes look up at him, wide and frightened, but she stops struggling when his face comes into focus. "You're alright. You're alright."

Rose sinks back into the pillows, her breath coming out in short, shallows gasps, half-sobbing. His heart breaks as he watches her continue to tremble.

Carefully, so as not to startle her, Jon runs his hand over the back of her head, gently shushing her. To his relief, her eyes begin to drift shut, though her breath continues to hitch. He keeps running his fingers through her hair until her breathing has evened out, and she drifts back off to sleep.

Filled with a dreadful ache that makes his eyes sting, he draws the covers up and over her back. He cannot help but feel nausea swelling inside of him as her scars are covered from view. It has been the same since she and Sansa had returned to him. As happy as he is to have them back, every time he looks at them, a piece inside of him gets torn. A constant reminder of how he failed them. Of how he may fail them, tomorrow.

With a quiet sigh, he gets up from her bed and stalks out of her tent, glancing back over his shoulder to make sure he didn't wake her. However, instead of heading back to his own tent, he finds himself going to Sansa's, half-expecting to find her in the same state.

Instead, when he peeks in, she is wide awake, sat on her bed. While she is dressed for sleeping, her legs are drawn up to her chest, and she stares, emptily at the wall of the tent in front of her. For a moment, he is tempted to go in and speak with her.

Deciding against it, he goes back to his own tent, desperately trying to take his mind off Rose's scars and the hollow look in Sansa's eyes.

* * *

Rose steps out of her tent the next morning, dressed in her chainmail and breastplate, her sword sheathed at her belt, a bow and quiver strapped around her. The weight of it hanging from her back makes her think of Loreena, and the time they'd spent between getting from the Fingers to Winterfell. How Ramsay had plunged a sword through her stomach. If she ever gets the chance, she will bury an arrow in Ramsay's eye. And, she'll do it for Loreena.

Her heart does a flutter in her chest, the crisp air washing around her. A distance ahead of her stands Sansa, watching as the small cavalry of their men disappear over the hillside. The Stark banners are soaring high, with the Mormonts, the Hornwoods, and the Mazins.

Rose swallows back the lump forming in her throat. So many of those men, men who have pledged their lives to putting her family back in Winterfell, she may never see again. Tormund, Ser Davos. Maybe even Jon.

Ahead of her, Sansa turns around and gazes at her from across the field, frowning in worry. Rose's jaw sets and she lifts her chin. _This will work. It has to._

* * *

From the opposite field, the distant sound of swords, men shouting, arrows being fired and horses whinnying carry in the short breeze. Rose tries her hardest to block it out, her eyes fixed on a point in the horizon as they wait.

After almost a good hour has passed, Sansa purses her lips. "Rose—"

"Give it time," she replies through gritted teeth. Her grip tightens on the reins.

Sansa pivots her horse to stand in front of her. "If he were coming, he'd be here by now," she cries. For a split second, she resembles that broken little girl who had wept in her arms after their father died, frightened out of her skin. "We have to _go_."

"Jon is out there risking his life because we persuaded him it was the right thing to do," Rose snaps, coolly. "We can wait five more bloody minutes." Although she hates to admit it, the hope inside of her is waning, the longer they wait. With a sigh, she whispers, "Sansa . . . if Jon dies, that's on us. We started this."

Sansa stares back at her, anguished. "I know," is all she can say.

Rose bites down, hard on her bottom lip. One last time, she looks out to the horizon, her heart sinking to her stomach. Opening her mouth, she prepares to suggest heading back for the camp.

But, a strange, thundering sound turns her head, again. Squinting beyond the treelines, she catches the vivid mass of white and blueness coming towards them at a blistering rate. Looking to Sansa, whose eyes have started shining with relief, an uncontrollable smile crosses her lips.

The Boltons are, indeed, doomed.

* * *

A horn resounds.

Rose sits from her horse atop of the hill, Littlefinger on one side of her, Sansa on the other, as thousands upon thousands of Arryn knights come tearing down the hill, their battles cries sending exquisite shudders down her spine.

She searches the skirmish. The Bolton infantry surrounds what remains of the Stark's forces in a half-circle, the other side blocked by an enormous pile of corpses. Rose is filled with a tremendous surge of disgust and elevation as she catches sight of Jon's bloodied face amongst the swarm, rising up above the others.

Then, she looks across the field. Ramsay sits on horseback, with a few men flanking him on either side. The look on his face is of pure shock. His eyes dart across the cavalry and glares, directly at her. If looks could kill, she would be falling sideways from her horse.

With the sudden urge to goad him, she gives him a small, dark smile.

The Knights of the Vale smash into the rear of the Bolton shield bearers, circling around them and knocking them down with impressive ease. The circle breaks, and Rose and Sansa exchange a small sigh of relief.

From the edge of the swarm, Jon scales up the mountain of bodies and staggers to his feet. At his side are Tormund and Wun Wun, the giant, who has numerous stray arrows buried in his body. For a moment, Rose frowns, wondering what he's doing.

Then, she realises. Directly across from him, Ramsay locks eyes with her brother. His jaw sets, and he quickly pivots his horse around. He and his men ride back towards Winterfell. Rose watches as Jon, Tormund and the giant hurtle after them, back up the hill slope.

"Come on," she murmurs to Sansa.

Without looking back at Littlefinger, the girls ride after their brother.

* * *

The first thing Rose sees when she and Sansa ride through Winterfell's breached gates is the enormous body of the dead giant lying, face-down on the dirt floor. The further her horse gallops through, they turn the heads of the men surrounding them, all from the bloodied and beaten Stark forces.

The second is Ramsay. He stands in the courtyard, a bow and arrow in hand, a short distance in front of Jon. Rose leaps from her horse, her heart beginning to speed in her chest.

She watches, in mild horror as Ramsay begins notching an arrow, eyes fixed on Jon. Panic slams into her chest, driving her actions. She grabs ahold of her own bow, and notches the arrow so quickly, she's unsure whether she's done it right.

 _Don't think about the release. Focus only on the aim_.

Jon drops his sword to the ground and leaps forwards, grabbing ahold of a Mormont shield from the dirt. Ramsay aims.

But, Rose fires first.

It darts through the air and pierces the hand drawing back the bowstring. Ramsay lets out a howl of pain, his own arrow narrowly missing Jon and hitting his shield. Jon's head whips around, eyes wide and startled, as he catches sight of his sister.

The next second, he closes the distance between himself and Ramsay and slams the edge of the shield into his nose. Ramsay collapses backwards with a grunt, falling onto the dirt ground. Jon drops the shield, and leaps on top of him, beginning to punch him.

Rose freezes, half-elated, half-horrified as she watches her brother pound the monster into the dirt. Unable to look away, she watches as his face becomes mangled and bloody, the sound of his bones breaking under Jon's fists.

She doesn't feel Sansa leave her side. But, slowly, she crosses the courtyard to where Jon is hunched over Ramsay. He draws back his fist to land another punch but falters when he catches sight of her. Breathless and exhausted, Jon gets to his feet and staggers back. Ramsay remains, motionless on the floor.

For as long as she lives, the sight of the man who caused her such pain lying, broken on the ground, will forever be engraved in Rose's memory.

* * *

Winterfell falls into an eerie hush as the Bolton banners drop from the walls and are replaced with the Stark direwolf. Rose watches this happen, a strange ache in her chest. Home should feel different than this. Better.

Turning, she sees Jon and Tormund approaching, the blood rinsed from their faces. She locks eyes with her brother, instant guilt filling her. However, he gives her a dim smile. "Saved my life," he rasps, glancing back over his shoulder at where Ramsay's blood stains the snow.

Rose swallows. "You would've beaten him without my help."

Jon sighs, drained. "No, I wouldn't have."

Rose gazes up at him through her lashes. He stares back down at her. She can see a dim spark of anger making his jaw clench but decides this is not the time to address it as Sansa comes to their side.

Footsteps approach from behind them. Rose turns towards the open gates. Some of the Stark men come forward, solemn looks on their faces, carrying a stretcher between them. A corpse, with a head of dark curls and arrows buried in its lifeless body, lies upon it.

Rose stares down. The arrows are buried so deep in him, she can almost feel it in her chest. His name falls off her lips, "Rickon," but it's nothing more than a feeble wheeze. Her legs moving beneath her, she goes to his side and brushes her hand over his curls. Hot, wet tears flood down her cheeks as the pain stabs through her. At that moment, it feels as though her entire world is dismantling beneath her feet.

"We're going to bury my brother in the crypt," comes Jon's quiet, anguished voice. "Next to my father."

The men nod. Rose clasps onto Rickon's cold hand, but it slips out of her grip as they take him away. She hasn't the strength to start sobbing. Instead, she remains there, rooted to the spot as her brother starts to walk off.

"Jon," Sansa calls him back, trembling with rage. "Where is he?"

* * *

 **A/N:** Stark is back, bitches. But, who will the Northmen choose to lead them? Jon? Rose? Sansa? Who deserves it the most?


	60. The Winds of Winter

**The Winds of Winter**

"Winter is here."

* * *

 _Rickon Stark._

The name is carved in stone, next to Robb's. Her hand goes up, her fingers grazing against it. Her mind goes back to all those years ago when her brothers had hidden down here, in the crypts behind some tombstones. It feels like a century has passed since then. In her mind, she feels so much older.

She glances around at the sound of heavy boots descending the stone steps. Jon's face comes into view, gazing at her with an unreadable expression. Almost instantly, her stomach twists into knots.

Swallowing, she turns back to the plaque. "I came down here every day when I was a girl," she murmurs. "To study the faces, or learn the names. Sometimes, I'd find Father down here, lighting the candles. He'd never speak. Couldn't understand why." She catches her bottom lip between her teeth. "I suppose when I was a child, and the face were all strangers to me, it was easy not to feel sad. It's different now, of course."

Jon says nothing. He crosses over to her, standing at her side, looking up at their brother's name with the same, hollow expression.

"Sometimes, I wonder why we fought so hard to come back here," Rose confesses, in a whisper. "All the rooms and the hallways are filled with the memories of the people we love that've died. Mother, Father. Robb. Rickon." Her breath trembles as she exhales. It feels as though someone has stabbed a knife through her chest, opening up a huge, familiar hole there.

Still, Jon doesn't respond.

Her eyes drift shut. Anxiously, she wets her lips with her tongue. "Did you come down here to yell at me?"

"Why would I yell at you?"

"Because, you're angry," Rose sighs. "Angry that I didn't tell you about the Knights of the Vale." She shakes her head, feeling such an overwhelming sense of self-loathing, it sends tears to her eyes. "I didn't even know what I was doing until it was almost too late. Almost lost _both_ of my brothers, and it would've been my fault for being so stupid and stubborn and reckless—"

"Rose—"

Sucking in a breath, she turns to face him, needing to look him in the eye. "I knew the only place to defeat Ramsay was outside the walls of Winterfell. So, I as good as used the Northern army as bait to lure him outside the castle so the Vale could sweep in when they were vulnerable. And, the reason I didn't tell you was . . . I was ashamed," she confesses, her heart breaking when Jon sighs, irritated. "For turning to Littlefinger after all he did to us. I was so consumed with taking back the North, I gambled with your life because of it." She shakes her head, furiously blinking the tears away. "What kind of leader does that to her own brother?"

Jon stares at her.

 _He won't forgive me. He's never going to forgive me for this._

Finally, he closes the distance between them and puts a hand on her shoulder. "The kind that cares about her people," he says, plainly. "If I'd have known what you had in mind, I would've stopped you. The sacrifices you made . . . I couldn't have done it." He looks her, squarely in the eye. "I pushed you into scheming behind my back—"

"You don't have to pretend—"

"All of it was in the name of the North," he interrupts, firmly. "I know that."

Rose averts her gaze to the floor, staring at their feet. "I am so sorry," she croaks, when their eyes meet again.

A small, warm smile crosses his lips. "You're the Lady of Winterfell. We're standing here because of you. It's all that matters." Rose swallows, and nods. He peers at her for a long moment, then removes his hand from her shoulder. "I'll have the Lord's Chambers prepared for you."

"I don't need them," Rose insists, still quiet. "Give them to Sansa. We can't send her back to her old rooms. Not after everything that happened to her in there." She looks up to see Jon wincing, but he nods all the same. When he turns to leave, she grips his arm, tugging him back. "Go easy on her. She only did what I asked her to do."

Jon's brow furrows. He turns back to face her, eyes fixed on hers. "I'll never hurt you, Rose," he insists, sounding somewhat surprised. "Either of you. You know that, don't you?"

He waits. Rose blinks up at him, then nods, but finds herself unable to look him in the face when she does it. Pressing his lips together, he gives her hair a small ruffle, which brings a smile to her. "Don't take too long down here." He lifts an eyebrow. "The Northern lords will want to thank their new ruler in person."

Rose's heart does a somersault. He stalks back over to the stone steps and disappears up them, leaving her alone. The moment of elation she feels is marred when she looks back up at her brother's name, carved into stone far too soon.

* * *

Rose is pleased to find Littlefinger sitting in front of the desk, as asked for, when she enters the study. She closes the door behind her, the sharp sound making him spring up from his seat. "I'm pleased to see you looking well, my love," he says, softly.

She circles the room towards the desk. "You're addressing the Lady of Winterfell," she replies, flatly. "Use respect."

His lip twitches. "Apologies, My Lady."

Rose peers at him. Her hand itches to slap the grin from his face, but instead, she gestures for him to sit. With a deep breath, she sits down at the opposite end of the desk. "I thought we might use this time we have, without distractions, to lay our cards on the table," she begins. "To be honest with one another and discuss what needs to change in order to make this alliance work."

"Couldn't agree more," is his smooth reply. She flinches when his piercing blue eyes bear into hers. "News of this battle will spread quickly through the Seven Kingdoms, now that House Stark holds the North."

"That's the first order of business." Rose leans back in her seat. Mustering her authority, she looks him, squarely in the eye. "I'd like to thank you for fulfilling your promise to me. In exchange, I swore to honour my fidelity to you. I will do so. But, first and foremost, I am the Lady of Winterfell. I have taken back the North. Now, the duty of caring for it stands above my duties as a wife. Is that understood?"

Littlefinger blinks, confounded for a split second. "Your duties to the North include furthering its dynasty," he says, carefully. "You'll be expected to produce an heir."

"And, I will," Rose vows, though the thought makes her feel ill. "In exchange, you will declare for House Stark for all to hear. The Knights of the Vale will remain in Winterfell to fight alongside us in the war against the dead, should it come to our doorstep."

"Of course. Anything that is under my control shall also be under yours."

Rose nods. She pauses and looks down at her hand, flat on the table. When she looks up again, her jaw is set. "Lastly, you will apologise to my sister for what you did to her. And, you will look me in the eye and explain to me why you would do such a terrible thing in the first place." She cannot help it; the hurt creeps into her tone, making her swallow. "And, if I think you're lying to me—"

Littlefinger leans forward, abruptly. His hand stretches out and he puts it on top of hers, making her wince. But, she doesn't draw away. "Every time I'm faced with a decision, I close my eyes and see the same picture," he says, quietly. "Whenever I consider an action, I ask myself, will this action help to make this picture a reality? Pull it out of my mind and into the world? And, I only act if the answer is yes." His fingers graze the back of her hand in gentle circles, his eyes catching hers. "A picture of me on the Iron Throne . . . and you by my side."

His words are like a cold slap to the face. It feels as though everything inside of her has locked into place, freezing her to the seat. A minute ticks by, in which Rose tries to gather control of her thoughts, processing his words. Once she does, she clasps onto his hand.

"When I think of everything my family suffered because of that throne, I am so glad to have no part in it," she whispers.

Ignoring the disappointment on his face, she pushes herself to her feet and heads towards the door. His chair scrapes as he stands, too. "The past is gone for good," he says, loudly. "You can sit here mourning its departure, or you can prepare for the future. You, my love, are the future of House Stark. Who should the North rally behind? A trueborn daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark born here, at Winterfell, or a motherless bastard born in the south?"

The mention of Jon makes her teeth grit together. With a glare, she whips around to face him. "They'll rally behind both of us if that's what it comes to," she growls. "As will you, Petyr. Or, I will have you executed for treason."

Leaving her threat hanging in the air, she storms from the room, giving the door a sharp slam behind her.

* * *

"You can't expect the Knights of the Vale to side with wildling invaders."

"We didn't invade," Tormund snarls. "We were invited."

"Not by me."

Rose pushes herself to her feet. "I am grateful for all you've done for us, Lord Royce," she calls, her voice silencing the rest of the hall. "But, the Knights of the Vale arrived at my command, and they will stay at my command for as long as I ask them to. Not only as the Lady of Winterfell but as the wife of your Lord Protector. I hope that's understood."

Royce swallows and bows his head. "Indeed, My Lady," he grunts. He follows her movements as both of them take their seats, again.

At the high table, Jon rises to his feet at her side. "The Free Folk, the Northerners, and the Knights of the Vale fought bravely, fought together, and we won. My father used to say we find our true friends on the battlefield."

Lord Cerwyn stands. "The Boltons are defeated," he points out. "The war is over. Winter has come." He turns, facing the crowds of Northern lords gathered in the Great Hall. "If the maesters are right, it'll be the coldest one in a thousand years. We should ride home and wait out the coming storms."

"The war is not over," Jon insists, bleakly. "And, I promise you, friend, the true enemy won't wait out the storm. He brings the storm."

Cerwyn stares back at him, confused, and sinks back down into his seat. The rest of the lords begin to murmur, the sound causing Rose to huff in frustration. Jon looks down at Sansa, and then to her, his eyes pleading, but she can think of nothing intelligent to say. Resigning himself, he slumps down between them again.

At that moment, Lyanna Mormont gets up from the bench.

"Your son was butchered at the Red Wedding, Lord Manderly," she says, her childlike voice proud and booming. "But, you refused the call. You swore allegiance to House Stark, Lord Glover," she adds, her glare darting across the room to where he sits, looking sheepish. "But, in their hour of greatest need, you refused the call. And you, Lord Cerwyn, your father was skinned alive by Ramsay Bolton. Still, you refuse the call."

The room has fallen silent, listening with intent.

"But, House Mormont remembers," Lyanna shouts. "The North remembers! We know no king, but the King in the North whose name is Stark. I don't care if he's a bastard. Ned Stark's blood runs through his veins. He's my king, from this day until his last day."

Rose tilts her head to look at him. His eyes are wide, like a frightened deer, which puts a small smile on her face. The room fills with murmurs again — this time, murmurs of agreement. She turns, her eyes locking with Lyanna's, who gives her a nod before sitting back down.

Then, Manderly stands. "Lady Mormont speaks harshly and truly," he confesses, sounding broken. "My son died for Robb Stark, the Young Wolf. I didn't think we'd find another king in my lifetime. Yet, here he is." His arm extends towards the high table, turning to face the other lords. "A former crow sitting beside Ned Stark's eldest, trueborn daughter."

Rose blinks, her heart missing a beat. She isn't prepared for it when Manderly looks, directly at her. "I recall the day the Rose of Winterfell was born," he says, smiling. "And now, I would gladly name her my queen."

No words have ever felt so wonderful, like the pieces of six long, painful years have bridged together and started to make true sense. Not trusting herself to speak, she beams back at him.

"And, Jon Snow . . . Jon Snow avenged the Red Wedding," Manderly bellows. "He is the White Wolf." Drawing his blade, he holds it up. "The King in the North." Then, he lowers to his knee, putting the tip of his sword to the ground. Across the room, men stand and raise their cups of ale, their voices echoing his words.

Lord Glover gets up next, his face pained. "I did not fight beside you on the field, and I will regret that until my dying day. A man can only admit when he was wrong and ask forgiveness."

"There's nothing to forgive, My Lord," Jon insists, rasping.

Glover squares his shoulders. "There will be more fights to come. House Glover will stand behind House Stark as we have for a thousand years." His gaze darts to Rose, staring at her from across the room. "I will stand behind the Queen who brought the defence of our men," he declares. "And, I will stand behind Jon Snow." He unsheathes his sword and raises it, high. "The King in the North!"

The room erupts into the same words, swords being drawn and raised beneath the elated shouts. "The King in the North! The King in the North! The King in the North!"

The words stir something deep inside of Rose, as Jon steadily rises to his feet at her side. He glances down at her, a rare smile on his face. For the briefest moment, more empowered than she's ever been, Rose allows herself to share in his happiness.

Until, she glances across his chair at where Sansa sits, in silence. Her lips are pursed, her brow furrowed. When she feels her sister looking, she turns to face her and forces an encouraging smile. Rose gives her a small, reassuring nod.

Peering out, across the room, she spots Littlefinger standing in the shadows. He has an unimpressed grimace on his face. Unable to stop it, her smile droops.

* * *

Rose opens the door to the Lord's Chamber to find her sitting in front of the mirror, combing out her hair. She looks up with a small frown. Rose smiles, sheepishly, and nods to the plate of lemon cakes in her hands. "Peace offering."

Sansa rolls her eyes and sets her brush down. "There's no peace that needs to be made."

Regardless, she takes the plate and carries it over to the bed, perching down on the end of it. Hesitantly, Rose shuts the door and goes to sit beside her. Sansa picks up one of the cakes, then stops, and looks at her with a sigh. "Do you wish you'd done it?" she asks, quietly. "Killed Ramsay?"

 _Yes._

Rose squirms, uncomfortably on the bed. It takes her time to gather her words. "He was your monster to kill," she settles on, grimacing. "I'm sure I'll have plenty of my own in the future."

"Now that you're a queen," Sansa mutters.

Rose sucks in a short breath. "If it bothers you, I'd rather you just tell me. We can't be having secrets."

Sansa pauses, averting her gaze to the covers. "If I were still that same idiot girl with those dreams in her head . . . it would've," she admits. "Back then, I only ever thought about what I wanted, never about what I had. I'm not that girl anymore." Gently, she slips her hand into Rose's and gives it a small squeeze. "I'm proud of you. Truly."

Rose grins, relieved. She stares down at their entwined hands. "I've done some foolish things to keep our family safe. I've been reckless and, at times, plain stupid," she confesses, making both of them giggle. "But, I want to be a good queen. An easier time I'll have of it with you by my side. Not just as my sister, but as my counsel."

Bracing herself, she pulls the brooch out from where she kept it hidden, in the knot of her braided hair. "It's rather unheard of," she says, with a laugh. "But, then again, the North has never been ruled by a brother and a sister before. So, I figured a few more traditions could be broken."

She holds it out in the flat of her palm; the small, silver pin in the shape of a hand, with the direwolf symbol specially carved in the centre. Sansa holds her breath, staring down at it.

"Is that alright?" Rose asks, cautiously.

Sansa doesn't speak for a long minute. Then, when she finally looks up, her eyes are gleaming. "Hand of the Queen," she croaks. When she blinks, the tears come dribbling down her cheeks. "It's not exactly the life I pictured for myself, but . . . I have the strangest feeling it will be much, much better."

Rose is so relieved, she momentarily feels giddy. They share another weak giggle, as she slips the pin into the front of Sansa's dress. Neither of them knows of anything else to say. Instead, Sansa puts her arms around Rose and pulls her close when tears begin sliding down her cheeks, too. _This is what I wanted. This is all I have ever wanted._

 _Home, at long last._

* * *

 **A/N:** Season Six is done! And Rose is a Queen! It is, indeed, the first time the North will be governed by siblings rather than a married couple. Will this alter things? Cause some conflict/power struggles? Can you see Rose favouring Jon's opinion over Sansa's or vice versa?

Season Seven will either be uploaded on the 15th June or the 1st July. It just depends what time it gets finished, and whether I'll have finished the draft for the final season. Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed this season!


	61. Dragonstone

**A/N:** contains explicit sexual content.

* * *

 **Dragonstone**

"Leave one wolf alive and the sheep are never safe."

* * *

"I want every Northern maester to scour their records for any mention of dragonglass. Dragonglass kills White Walkers. It's more valuable to us now than gold. We need to find it, we need to mine it, we need to make weapons from it. Everyone aged 10 to 60 will drill daily with spears, pikes, bow and arrow."

"It's about time we taught these boys of summer how to fight," Glover grunts. The gathered Northern lords chuckle and murmur in agreement, the sound rumbling throughout the Great Hall.

"We can't allow just half the population to defend the North if we're going to survive," Rose calls. All heads whip around to where she sits, the Queen in the North, behind the high table with her siblings. "House Stark calls on women and girls to join our ranks, too."

Glover stares at her, dourly, and rises to his feet. "You expect me to put a spear in my granddaughter's hand?"

Rose's teeth grit. Slowly, she rises from her chair, watching as he swallows at her stance. Evident to all the lords in front of her, she looks more like a queen than ever, in her fitted, crimson breeches, which are tucked underneath boots that stretch up to her knees, and a black jacket with fur lining the hood. Beneath, there is the clear, dark glint of her breastplate, the direwolf sigil engraved on it, and her golden hair cascades around her in their usual, wild waves.

"I expect every Northman, male or female, to do their duty by the North," she explains, tersely. "In my experience, a person's skill on the field of battle isn't defined by their sex, nor should it be."

His fists clench at his sides. "Your Grace, to put little girls into the fray—"

At this, Lyanna leaps to her feet. "I don't plan on knitting by the fire while men fight for me," she snaps. "I might be small, Lord Glover, and I might be a girl, but I am every bit as much a Northerner as you."

"Indeed, you are, My Lady. No one has questioned—"

"And I don't need your permission to defend the North," she interrupts. With that, she looks to Rose. "We'll begin training every man, woman, boy, and girl on Bear Island."

The tables rumble as the Northmen bang their fists on them in rapport. Glover gives Lyanna a small, bashful nod, before they both lower into their seats. A smile on her lips, Rose also lowers into hers, looking up to see Jon nodding at her in approval.

"While we're preparing for attack, we need to shore up our defences," he says, as the room quietens down once again. "The only thing standing between us and the Army of the Dead is the Wall, and the Wall hasn't been properly manned in centuries. I'm not the King of the Free Folk, but if we're going to survive this winter together . . ."

Across the room, Tormund glances around. He pushes himself to his feet with a small grunt. "You want us to man the castles for you?" he asks, stepping into the centre of the room.

"Aye. Last time we saw the Night King was at Hardhome. The closest castle to Hardhome is Eastwatch-by-the-Sea."

"Then, that's where I'll go." With a teasing smile, Tormund glances at the lords sitting, warily on the benches. "Looks like we're the Night's Watch now."

Rose has to bite down on her lip to keep from laughing. Turning her head, she sees Sansa sharing the same struggle, as the room fills with disgruntled muttering.

"If they breach the Wall, the first two castles in their path are Last Hearth and Karhold," Jon continues.

Lord Royce stands. "The Umbers and the Karstarks betrayed the North. Their castles should be torn down with not a stone left standing."

"The castles committed no crimes," Sansa pipes up. "And, we need every fortress we have for the war to come." She looks between Jon and Rose, imploringly. "We should give the Last Hearth and Karhold to new families. Loyal families, who supported us against Ramsay."

"Aye," the room mutters in unison.

Jon tenses. "The Umbers and the Karstarks have fought beside the Starks for centuries," he points out, tersely. "They've kept faith generation after generation."

"And, then they broke faith."

"No Northman should be left behind with the dead marching towards us," Rose maintains. Her eyes narrow when a frown appears on Sansa's face. "We've forgiven the lords who refused to fight when the Boltons stripped us of our ancestral home. To do that to another family, because of the crimes of a few treasonous sons . . . what does that make us? No better than the monsters who persecuted and enslaved—"

"So, there's no punishment for treason and no reward for loyalty?" Sansa interrupts.

Rose goes very still. The room falls so silent, the sound of a bench creaking as one of the lords squirms on it sends shudders down her spine. Her glare remains trained on Sansa, who stares back at her with no signs of wavering.

Eventually, Jon pivots to face her. "The punishment for treason is death," he says, firmly. "Smalljon Umber died on the field of battle. Harald Karstark died on the field of battle."

"They died fighting for Ramsay," Sansa presses. "Give the castles to the families of the men who died fighting for _you_."

Across the room, the lords thump their fists on the table. From where she sits, Rose locks eyes with Littlefinger, who remains standing in the furthest corner of the room, watching her with fascination. She rolls her eyes to make a point and looks away.

"When I was Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, I executed men who betrayed me," says Jon, still tense. "I executed men who refused to follow orders. My father always said, 'the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword', and I have tried to live by those words. But, I will not punish a son for his father's sins, and I will not take a family home away from a family it has belonged to for centuries. That is my decision, and my decision is final," he finishes, giving Sansa a subtle, stern look.

Sansa drops her gaze with a small huff.

"Yesterday's wars don't matter anymore," Jon says, more softly. "The North needs to band together. All the living North."

With that, he looks to Rose. She braces herself, then rises to her feet, as Jon slumps back into his chair. "Alys Karstark," she calls. A girl with a mane of fiery red hair stands up, timidly, looking like a frightened mouse. "Ned Umber." From the opposite end of the room, a boy, younger than Rose had been expecting, also stands. Swallowing, she beckons to them. "Come forward."

Slowly, the room beginning to murmur again, the two children make their way to the front. Rose can see the Karstark girl trembling, despite her thick layers of clothing, and the wide eyes of the Umber boy breaks her heart a little.

 _Don_ _'_ _t_ _think_ _of_ _Rickon_ _._ _Not_ _now_ _._

She tries a small, gentle smile. "Centuries of loyal service needn't end with dispossession," she says, softly. "So, my family and I ask you to pledge yourselves, once again, to House Stark. To serve as our bannermen. To shield our backs, and keep faith so long as our blood lives and breathes in the North."

In near union, they draw their blades and fall to their knees, though their faces suggest mild surprise at her gentleness. Rose feels her heart beginning to thump with the relief. "Arise," she orders, and they do. "Will you stand beside us, Ned and Alys, now and always?"

"Now and always," they echo.

The Northern lords bang their hands against the tables in appreciation, and the look of sheer relief on Alys Karstark's face gives Rose an overwhelming sense of pride. Across the room, the two ladies share a small smile.

* * *

Rose walks into the study with a tired sigh. She hears Littlefinger close the door behind them. "Your sister seems vexed," he muses.

Rose shakes her head, irritated. "She's a decent enough politician, but this goes deeper than all that. It's about survival." Drained, she leans against her desk, burying her face in her hands.

"Nevertheless, you did well today," Littlefinger insists. When she looks up, he is smiling at her. "The Karstarks and the Umbers will be forever loyal to the Queen who showed them mercy."

"It wasn't just their Queen's decision," Rose murmurs.

He peers at her. "For a woman so eager to rule the North, you're surprisingly content with sharing the crown."

"Jon is a good ruler. He's more experienced at it than I am."

"Indeed." With a hint of a smirk, he walks over to her and, tentatively, brushes a loose curl from her face. "All respect where it is owed, but I must say, it comes more naturally to you," Littlefinger insists, smoothly.

Rose purses her lips. She tugs his hand from her cheek, ignoring the slight irritation on his face. "I named Sansa Hand of the Queen because I wanted her voice to be heard. How can I show her that I'm listening without her feeling pushed aside?"

Littlefinger crosses over to the window and gazes out of it at the courtyard below, fingering his cufflink. "A powerful man once said that you must serve steel and fire to those who defy you. When they go to their knees, however, you must bring them back to their feet. Or else, no man will ever bend the knee to you."

"I don't want her on her knees," Rose hisses. "I want her standing at my side."

Littlefinger turns. She glares back at him, her chin in the air. He opens his mouth to say something but is interrupted by a knock at the door. Closing his eyes, he lets out a quiet huff of annoyance.

"Yes?" Rose calls.

Maester Wolkan enters the room, looking flustered. "A raven from King's Landing, Your Grace."

Rose frowns, a lump forming in her throat. With a nod, she takes the small piece of sealed parchment from him, staring down at the lion sigil. Looking across the room, Littlefinger's lips press together, and they share the same, miserable thought.

* * *

"I, Cersei of House Lannister, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, charge the turncoats Jon Snow and Rose of House Stark to come to King's Landing. Bend the knee, or suffer the fate of all traitors." With a frustrated growl, Rose crunches the parchment with her fist, her face pained.

Sansa shakes her head. "You've been so consumed with the enemy to the north, you've forgotten about the one to the south," she mutters.

Jon's head whips around to scowl at her. "I'm consumed with the Night King because I've seen him. And, believe me, you'd think of little else if you had, too."

"We're not asking you to forget about the Night King or his army," Rose insists, trying to keep her voice steady. "We only ask that you take the southern threat more seriously."

"There won't _be_ a southern threat if the dead plows through Winterfell and marches across Westeros," Jon snaps.

Sansa huffs, gesturing out to the wide spread of white snow that blankets the North. "We still have a wall between us and the Night King. There's nothing between us and Cersei."

"There's a thousand miles between us and Cersei! Winter is here. The Lannisters are a southern army. They've never ranged this far north."

Rose sucks in some of the cold breeze whistling through the ramparts. "He's not wrong," she confesses with a small sigh. "To invade the North, she'd have to make it through the Neck. If her armies aren't slowed down by the swamps, they won't make it past Moat Cailin."

"If you're her enemy, she'll never stop until she's destroyed you," Sansa protests. "Everyone who's ever crossed her, she's found a way to murder."

Jon eyes her. "You almost sound as if you admire her."

Sansa grimaces. "I learned a great deal from her."

An angry, simmering silence rings out between the three siblings. Rose looks down at the piece of paper, crumpled in her hand, and squares her shoulders. "Look, we can bicker all we like in private, but when we're in the Hall, in front of the other lords, we need to remain a united front," she urges, firmly. "To prove that they've put their faith in the right people."

Jon and Sansa exchange a bashful glance but say nothing. Taking a deep breath, Rose calms herself, then looks to Sansa. "We survive the northern threat," she instructs. "Then, we'll turn to the southern."

Sansa purses her lips, but nods, compliantly.

* * *

Rose is relieved when the night finally comes and she can resign herself to her chambers. Her room is warmly lit with the glow from the fire burning in the hearth and candles scattered across the window ledge. She sits at her desk, wearily scrawling on a piece of parchment. When she finishes, she signs her name, pours the wax and presses in the scarlet direwolf sigil.

She barely registers the door opening or the sound of approaching footsteps. Littlefinger leans down from behind her and gives her a small peck on the cheek, peering over her shoulder. "It's not comforting to walk in and find your wife writing to another man," he murmurs.

"The Ironborn have extended a peace."

"That's good to hear." He slowly heads over to the bed, removing the mockingbird pin holding his cloak together. "Is our King aware?"

Rose scoffs. "Believe me, we've discussed it at length." Stifling a yawn, she puts the letter aside and gets up. "Jon knows we'd be fools not to reciprocate. Not after all our people have suffered at each other's hands."

Littlefinger turns to see her flopping backwards onto the bed, releasing a loud sigh as she does so. "Theon is an interesting young man," he contemplates, softly. Rose tilts her head to frown at him. He gazes back at her, his face unreadable. "He's in love with you, I think."

She stiffens. "So, what if he is?"

Littlefinger puts his cloak down, draping it over the chair. "You should have seen the look in his eyes when he delivered you back to Winterfell." Lifting an eyebrow, he approaches the side of the bed. "In all my life, I've never seen a man so traumatised."

He sits, his back to her, and bends down to remove his boots. With a roll of her eyes, Rose scuttles down the bed and gets on her knees behind him. "He isn't here now," she points out, running her hands over his shoulders. "He's sailing across the Narrow Sea. And, I am here. With my husband."

Littlefinger slips out of her grip and gets to his feet, turning to face her. "I _am_ your husband," he agrees, as she unlaces the front of her robe and slips it from her body. "Yet, the Northern lords still see you as a Stark."

Rose grits her teeth. "I am a Stark."

"You are also a Baelish." Slowly, he eases her backwards, onto the covers, and puts his hands on either side of her head to balance himself. "Our child will be a Baelish." Steeling herself, _preparing_ herself, her legs wrap around his waist. "They should address you as—"

Instantly, Rose reverses their positions and mounts his lap. "They will address me as Her Grace, the Queen in the North, because that is what I am," she growls, flooded with impatience. Her hands push against his chest, pinning him against the bed. She smiles, frostily. "You should do the same. Out of respect."

Littlefinger's lip twitches, a gleam in his eyes. "As my Queen commands."

Pushing her emotions aside, Rose grudgingly gives his breeches a harsh tug and frees his manhood, then guides it inside of her, with a small hiss. At the sound, Littlefinger straightens up and grips onto her hips, his mouth claiming hers, swallowing the moans escaping her.

She thrusts against him, as hard as she dares, while his lips trail downwards to envelop her hardened nipple, and his fingers leave nail-marks in the flesh of her behind. Not wanting to relinquish the control, she forces him backwards against the bed, and rides him faster, hating him, but appreciating the brief distraction.

The couple is so lost in the moment, they fail to acknowledge Sansa attempting to sleep in the Lord's Chambers next to them. With an infuriated huff, she rolls over and puts a pillow over her head to drown out the commotion.

No one could accuse the Queen in the North of breaking her promises.

* * *

 **A/N:** So, Rose is getting on with things . . . ruling the North, fulfilling her duties to Littlefinger, AND maintaining the peace between her irritating, squabbling siblings! All the while, Littlefinger's trying to put a bun in her oven. If she did happen to get pregnant, how will that change things for her long-term? Also, how do you think she'll react to Daenerys's invitation to Dragonstone in the next episode?


	62. Stormborn

**A/N:** contains violence.

* * *

 **Stormborn**

"Are you a sheep? No. You're a dragon. Be a dragon."

* * *

Rose gazes down into the courtyard, at where the boys are training, firing arrows, clumsily into targets. "Do you think it's really Tyrion?" Sansa asks, anxiously. "It could be someone trying to lure you into a trap."

"Read the last bit," Jon mutters.

Rose lifts the piece of parchment in her gloved hand. "All dwarfs are bastards in their father's eyes," she recites.

Sansa frowns. "What does that mean?"

"It's something he said to me the first night we met," Jon explains.

"Sansa knows him better than most." Rose looks to where her sister stands, on the walkway next to Ser Davos. "What do you think?"

Sansa shrugs, pursing her lips. "Tyrion's not like the other Lannisters. He was always kind to us, you remember. But, it's too great a risk."

Rose looks back down at the letter. "The Seven Kingdoms will bleed as long as Cersei sits on the Iron Throne," she reads. "Join us. Together we can end her tyranny."

Cautiously, Davos stretches out a hand. Rose gives him the letter, and his eyebrows raise as he studies the written words. "Sounds like a charmer."

"No plea for a realm in open rebellion to bend the knee," Rose notes. She turns to see Jon frowning at her. She shrugs. "It's what we are, isn't it?"

Davos chuckles. "Of course, the casual mention of a Dothraki horde, a legion of Unsullied, and three dragons . . ."

"Not so charming," Rose finishes, wryly. _Three dragons._ The thought hits her and immediately irritates her. She sighs through her gritted teeth.

"What is it?" Jon asks.

Rose leans against the walkway. "What kills whites? Dragonglass. Valyrian Steel. Fire." She sucks in a terse breath and arches an eyebrow. "What do dragons breathe?"

"You're not suggesting Jon meet with her?" Sansa exclaims.

Davos quickly shakes his head. "No, too dangerous."

"But, the Army of the Dead makes it past the Wall . . ." Rose trails off, huffing at the sceptical looks on all their faces. Her eyes dart to Jon. "Do we really have enough men to defend the North single-handedly?" she asks, quietly, and waggles the parchment in her hand. "Might be a good idea to seek out a strategic alliance, or two."

Jon stares at her, grimacing when he realises she's right.

* * *

Rose is sat behind the desk, the wood concealed beneath the large map spread across it. Jon stands, waiting patiently until she's finished reading, his knuckles clenched against the table.

"Who's Samwell Tarly?" she asks.

Jon swallows. "He was my brother at the Night's Watch. A man I trust as much as you or Sansa." Outstretching his hand, he takes the letter back from her. "He's discovered proof that Dragonstone sits on a mountain of dragonglass."

"Proof?"

"My guess is he read it in a book." Jon slumps down in his chair, leaning back and rubbing his hand, tiredly across his face.

Rose studies him. "You remember what I said to you before we dragged our forces out to stand against the Boltons."

Jon nods, feebly. "The North has to come first."

Rose bites down on her bottom lip. "I wish we had enough resources to defend it on our own, but—"

"We don't," Jon finishes. He gives her a gentle smile, and it fades when he tosses the letter onto the desk. Picking up his cup of ale, he swigs it back, his shoulders tensing. "Sansa's not going to like this."

Rose grins. "I'd be worrying about Lyanna Mormont if I were you."

Jon chuckles, weakly. He peers at her, the warmth of his brown eyes bearing into hers. Then, he picks up the flagon and pours some ale into a second cup. Leisurely, he gets up and rounds the table towards her. Rose takes the cup gratefully, and he leans against the desk, standing next to her. "You don't seem frightened by all this," he notes.

Rose shrugs. "Not really frightened of anything anymore," she murmurs. A small frown on her face, she takes a tiny sip of the ale, grimacing at the disgusting taste. "Except losing the North," she adds, looking up to see him staring down at her. "Everything we fought so hard to take back."

Jon averts his gaze. Rose tilts her head to look at him, cradling the cup in her hands. "We reach Dragonstone, and what happens? The Khaleesi demands we bend the knee, surrender the North to her. We refuse, her dragons burn us alive." She swallows back the lump in her throat. "We obey, and everything we suffered to take our home back will be for nothing."

Her mind takes her back to those agonising months spent in Ramsay's torture chamber, and the unspeakable things he did to her. Watching the muscles clench in Jon's face, she can tell he is thinking the same thing. And all those people who died on that field, died fighting for them when the odds weren't stacked in their favour . . .

"Or, we make a new ally," he counters.

Rose gives him a look. "We can make a new ally without surrendering the Northern crown."

"Aye. And how do you propose we do that?"

Rose shrugs, rubbing her finger along the rim of her cup. "Flirt with her," she suggests in a small, teasing voice. Jon shakes his head, his face breaking out in a rare smile, which makes her giggle. "We won't know what she wants until we get there."

Jon swallows back the rest of his ale. "She could want us dead."

"Hmh." Rose raises her eyebrows. "In that case, we'd better leave the North in dependable hands."

* * *

"I received this a few days ago from Dragonstone." Jon holds up the letter in his hand. "It was sent to me by Tyrion Lannister." The Hall fills with disgruntled murmurs, but he speaks over them. "He is now Hand of the Queen to Daenerys Targaryen. She intends to take the Iron Throne from Cersei Lannister. She has a powerful army at her back and, if this message is to be believed, three dragons."

The outcry from the lords this time is louder, some of them chuckling in disbelief, but others eyeing one another, warily.

"Lord Tyrion has invited me to Dragonstone to meet with Daenerys," Jon continues. Tensing, he turns to face his sisters; Sansa sits behind the high table, and Rose stands in front of it, holding her breath. "And I'm going to accept."

Rose exhales under the loud roar of disapproval from the Northern lords, her gaze trained on Jon. Glancing over her shoulder, Sansa peers up at her with wide, frightened eyes. She refuses to look at Littlefinger from where he stands, in the corner, to gauge his reaction.

"We need this dragonglass, My Lords," Jon suddenly bellows, whipping back around. The room falls silent. "We know that dragonglass can destroy both White Walkers and their army. We need to mine it and turn it into weapons."

Rose straightens up. "More than anything else, we need allies," she says, loudly to drown out the continuous murmurs of disapproval. All heads turn to her direction. "If we stood here and tried to convince you that we can defeat the Night King on our own, we'd be deceiving you. His army grows larger by the day. This Targaryen Queen has the backing of the Unsullied, the Dothraki, and three large dragons. We'll stand a better chance with her fighting at our side." Sucking in a breath, she looks to Sansa. "The King and I will ride for White Harbour tomorrow, then sail for Dragonstone."

"You're going?" she exclaims. "Both of you."

Jon nods. "Rose is a trueborn Stark. I'll have an easier time convincing Daenerys into an alliance with her at my side."

Sansa glares at Rose, and she feels a sharp stab of guilt in her chest. "Have you forgotten what happened to our grandfather?" she demands. "The Mad King invited him to King's Landing and roasted him alive."

"We know that," Rose insists.

"She is here to reclaim the Iron Throne and the Seven Kingdoms. The North is one of those seven kingdoms."

"The Night King defeats us, and there won't _be_ any kingdoms to reclaim," Rose snaps, frustrated. "We'll make sure she understands that as well as we do."

Sansa shakes her head. "This isn't an invitation, it's a trap."

"It could be," Jon agrees, still tense. "But, I don't believe Tyrion would do that. You know him. He's a good man."

Across the room, Lord Royce gets to his feet. "Your Grace, with respect, I must agree with Lady Sansa. I remember the Mad King all too well. A Targaryen cannot be trusted, nor can a Lannister."

The room cries out in agreement, the tables shaking as their fists thump against them. "We called your brother king," Lord Glover thunders, rising to his feet. "And then, he rode south and lost his kingdom."

"Winter is here, Your Grace," Lyanna adds, getting up, also. "We need the Queen and the King in the North _in_ the North."

The lords and lady take their seats again, and the room quietens. Jon looks across it, to Rose, who says nothing, but gives him a small, comforting smile. He returns it, then turns back to the Northmen.

"My sisters united the Vale with our forces to save our home," he begins, uneasily. "The battle was lost until they won it back. Yet, you all crowned _me_ your king. I never wanted it. I never asked for it. But, I accepted it because the North is my home. It's part of me, and I will never stop fighting for it, no matter the odds. But, the odds are against us." He huffs out a sigh, his eyes heavy. "None of you have seen the Army of the Dead. None of you. We can never hope to defeat them alone. Your Queen is right. We need allies. Powerful allies." Turning, he looks to Sansa. "We know the risk. But, we have to take it."

Sansa leaps to her feet. "Then, send an emissary," she pleads. "Don't go yourselves."

"Daenerys is a queen," Rose points out. "She'll only be convinced by another."

She rounds on her. "You're abandoning your people," she cries, her eyes shining. "You're abandoning your _home_!"

"We're leaving both in capable hands."

"Whose?"

"Yours."

Sansa stiffens like Rose had slapped in the face.

Rose walks over to the table, slowly, feeling a painful, swelling ache in her chest. "I named you my Hand, not because you're my sister, but because I trust you," she says, fiercely. "More than anything. And now, I'm leaving the most important thing in the world to me in your care. Take it." She smiles, fighting back the tears. "Until Jon and I return, the North is yours, Lady Stark."

Sansa's face sets. She glances over at Jon. She scans the room, searching the faces of the Northern lords gathered. Finally, she turns back to Rose, swallows, and nods.

* * *

"I appreciate your concern, Lady Brienne. But, frankly, I'd prefer if you remained here to protect Sansa in my absence. Danger is often drawn to her."

"And not to you?" Brienne demands.

Rose suppresses a sigh. Setting down her quill, she leans back in her seat and looks up at the tall, armoured woman standing in front of her desk. "I'll have Jon, and Ser Davos, and there'll be a dozen or so Northmen with us," she points out.

Brienne purses her lips. "I swore an oath, not to one sole member of House Stark, but to _all_ your mother's daughters," she implores. "You are in far more danger heading for Daenerys Targaryen than Sansa is here, home, at Winterfell."

Rose lets out a slow, steady breath. "This isn't a request," she says, firmly, but softly. "Your Queen is ordering you to stay."

Brienne opens her mouth to protest, but thinks better of it, and falls silent. She watches as Rose rises and crosses to the opposite side of the room to gather more parchment. "What of Lord Baelish?" she asks, tersely.

Rose stiffens. "He'll remain here, too." She stares down at the papers in her hands, going still. Her stomach twisting into knots, she turns back to face Brienne, finding her face has softened, concerned. "He's the most dangerous man in the North," she whispers, her cheeks warming. "He'll never hurt me — not _truly_ , anyway — but . . . I can't leave Sansa alone with him. It's why I need you to stay."

The small confession embarrasses her more than it should. Brienne sees this, and swallows, giving a short, curt nod. After a lingering silence, she turns on her heel and heads for the door. Then stops, and turns back around. "Your mother would admire how you've handled things, Your Grace," she insists, in her usual, self-assured tone. But her eyes are gentle, and she has a small, proud smile on her face. "I rarely hear you complain, given your circumstances."

Rose sucks in a breath, not realising how badly she needed to hear that. Not wanting to cry, she bites down on her lip, hard, and nods. "Promise me something," she rasps before Brienne can leave. Lifting her chin, she says, "If he lays a hand on my sister, you cut him down before he even has the chance to beg for mercy."

She half-expects Brienne to recoil in horror at the request. Instead, the corner of her lip twitches, bemused. "With pleasure."

* * *

Littlefinger finds her in the crypts, standing in front of her father's statue. Her hair is fastened in a neat braid, her sword sheathed at her belt, a pensive expression on her face.

"I delivered his bones myself," he says. Rose jumps, her head whipping around to look at him. Instantly, she tenses. "Presented them to your lady mother as a gesture of goodwill from Tyrion Lannister. It seems like a lifetime ago."

Rose grits her teeth, turning back to the statue. "I'll make sure to send your regards when I see him," she says, tersely.

Littlefinger reaches her side and looks up at the face carved in stone. "I was sorry when he died. Your father and I had our differences, but he loved Cat very much. So, did I." He turns back to Rose, the sombre expression in his face hardening. "When were you planning on telling me?"

Rose sucks in a terse breath. "In the Hall, with the other lords under my command."

Littlefinger's eyes narrow. He steps closer to her, and she staggers backwards, her hand brushing against the hilt of her sword. "You think you're clever," he whispers. "We had an agreement. I help to secure your place in the North, you fulfil your obligations to me."

Rose grits her teeth. "I've told you. My duties to the North—"

He grabs her then, taking her wrists in his hands, the sharp pain making her gasp. "Queen or not, you are my wife," he hisses.

"Let go of me," Rose snaps.

Littlefinger ignores her. "As your husband, I bid you stay in Winterfell, where you belong." He backs her, slowly against the wall, until she can feel the stone pressing into her back. His cold blue eyes penetrate hers, suddenly wild. "You go to the Mother of Dragons, and she will reduce everything you've worked for to ashes. She will _burn_ you."

"I understand the risk," Rose insists.

"No. You don't." His fingers clench around her wrists, making her hiss in pain, but his face is anguished. "You're still the same reckless child I freed from King's Landing all those years ago. I thought so much more of you."

 _Ouch._ His words feel like a punch to the gut.

"Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you," she rasps, the ache from his cruelty bubbling into a rage in the pit of her stomach. "But, you disappointed me first."

Littlefinger's jaw clenches. "You are my wife."

"I am the Lady of Winterfell and we are in the North," Rose shouts, her voice tremoring with anger. "And, when we are in the North, there is no one's word above mine. Especially not yours. Release me."

He does nothing, glaring back at her with malice. Her chest constricts at his closeness, making it difficult to breathe, but she tries to not let this show on her face. "Let me go," she tries again, wriggling against him, but Littlefinger's grip hardens.

The last time he had this look in his eye was the night before he left for King's Landing, and her head reels with the memories of him slapping her, of the pair of them wrestling like animals—

"Rose."

Littlefinger's grip disappears. Rose stops moving, her blood running cold when she spots her brother standing a distance away from them. There's a startled frown on his face that hardens when Littlefinger slowly turns to face him. "You don't belong down here."

"Forgive me." Littlefinger's face smooths into a smile. "I was only wishing my wife a farewell."

He looks to Rose, who fixes him with a sharp, piercing glare, massaging her sore wrist. His smile droops at the look of pure loathing on her face. "Yes," she says, curtly. "Farewell, Lord Baelish."

With that, she sweeps past him and disappears into the blackness of the crypt, heading for the staircase. Jon watches her leave, his face turning to steel.

"I pray the Dragon Queen receives you graciously," Littlefinger says, struggling to keep his voice steady. "It would be a shame for you to die before we've had the chance to talk, properly."

"I have nothing to say to you," Jon snarls.

He turns on his heel, heading for the stairs.

"Not even 'thank you'?" Littlefinger calls after him. Jon freezes in his steps, going rigid. "If it weren't for me, you'd have been slaughtered on that battlefield. You have many enemies, My King, but I swear to you, I'm not one of them. I love Rose, as I loved her mother."

It all happens very suddenly, in the space of a second. Every painful memory Rose had confided in him with — how Joffrey had treated her in King's Landing, and the Ironborn men that had held her hostage, even _Theon_ . . . and Ramsay. All that he had done to her. Those vile things he cannot help but think about each time he sets eyes on his sister. How ashamed she'd been to tell him like it was all her own fault. How she'd cried, how she'd screamed in her sleep, and the scars on her body . . .

All of it becomes _him_.

Jon spins back around. He grabs Littlefinger about the throat and slams him against the wall, crushing his neck with his fist. Littlefinger splutters, clawing at his hand, desperately, but the inhuman rage inside of Jon makes it difficult to ease up. It burns through his veins like wildfire. "Put your hands on her again, and I'll kill you myself," he growls.

The second his grip disappears, Littlefinger sinks back against the wall, gasping for breath. Jon fixes him with one last, steely glare, then heads for the stone staircase. Unable to resist being disturbed at his own fury.

* * *

When he reaches the courtyard, the snow is falling in a gentle drift. Rose has mounted her horse in front of the gates, Ser Davos next to her, and their men crowded behind them. Jon heaves himself up onto his horse, struggling with the weight of his fur cloak. He glances at Rose, who is staring at the gates, emptily.

Turning, she looks to the walkway. Jon follows her gaze. Standing there is their sister, her red hair startling against the snowy backdrop. Her face is pained as she gazes down at them. Slowly, Jon raises his hand to her. With a forced smile, she waves back.

His horse heads for the gates. Rose's stare lingers a little longer, the sisters sharing a last, fleeting moment of sentiment. Turning away, she steels herself and gallops after Jon.

Her heart breaks the second she passes through the gates of Winterfell, for the fourth time in her life, making it unbearable to look back.

* * *

 **A/N:** A union of Ice and Fire next episode! Rose is, for obvious reasons, very passionate about the North. And Daenerys is passionate about conquering _all_ of the Seven Kingdoms. But can you see Rose and Daenerys getting along? Can you see a smooth alliance between the two, or will there be some clashing?


	63. The Queen's Justice

**The Queen's Justice**

"Fight every battle everywhere, always, in your mind. Everyone is your enemy, everyone is your friend. Every possible series of events is happening all at once. Live that way and nothing will surprise you. Everything that happens will be something that you've seen before."

* * *

The closer they come to the island, the riper the smell of sulfur and brimstone. The castle is more of a small fortress, buried in the face of the volcano. There is a little spread of miserable beach surrounding it, then miles and miles of ocean, with nothing in the horizon.

The boat comes to a jerky halt on the waves. Davos extends his hand, and Rose takes it, allowing him to lead her out. Her shoes instantly drench with the saltwater, and she walks ahead of the men pulling the boat onto the shore, Jon and Davos at her sides.

Tyrion is the first face that comes into view, dressed all in black like the woman standing next to him. She has a mane of dark, wild hair, dusky skin and eyes, bright like molten gold. There's a welcoming smile on her face, but she eyes them, cautiously.

Dothraki guards are dotted around them. Rose finds herself inching closer to Jon at the sight of them — their oiled hair worn in enormous braids down their backs, painted leather vests and unusual, curved swords are foreign and unsettling.

"The Bastard of Winterfell," Tyrion calls.

Jon stops. "Dwarf of Casterly Rock."

A small smile twitches beneath Tyrion's beard, which Jon shares. He steps forward and offers his hand. "Believe we last saw each other on top of the Wall."

Jon shakes it. "You were pissing off the edge if I remember right." He eyes the curved gash across his face. "You picked up some scars along the road."

Tyrion nods, sighing. "It's been a long road." His gaze darts to Rose, and another smile breaks out across his face, wider this time. "Lady Stark. Far lovelier than I remember."

Rose beams. She leans down and kisses him on the cheek. When she steps back, her nose wrinkles. "You're not angry with me," she notes.

"For scurrying off with my wife and leaving me in the capital to face a trial rigged against my favour?" Tyrion asks, wryly. He shakes his head when her smile dims. "Only briefly," he confesses, then he tenses. "From what I've heard, you've suffered enough as it is. You'll hear no grief about it from me."

Rose feels her cheeks warming. Forcing a smile, she nods.

He looks over her shoulder. "I'm Tyrion Lannister."

"Davos Seaworth."

He steps forward and shakes his outstretched hand. "Ah, the Onion Knight. We fought on opposite sides at the Battle of Blackwater Bay."

"Unluckily for me," Davos mutters.

Tyrion blinks, at a loss for words. Quickly, he turns to the woman standing to his left. "Missandei is the Queen's most trusted advisor," he introduces.

Missandei smiles. "Welcome to Dragonstone," she announces, her voice smooth like silk. "Our queen knows this is a long journey. She appreciates the effort you have made on her behalf. If you wouldn't mind handing over your weapons."

Rose frowns. Jon glances at her, and she brushes her hand over the hilt of her sword, protectively. After an uncomfortable silence that lasts far too long, Jon forces a smile. "Of course."

Missandei breathes, relieved. The Dothraki men march forwards, approaching the Stark soldiers, who begin handing over their shields and swords.

Jon begins unfastening his belt. He looks over to Rose to see that she isn't doing the same, but rather glaring, sourly back at him. He gives her a hard look, glancing pointedly at the Dothraki soldier approaching her. Rose hesitates, then rolls her eyes and, angrily, begins removing her own belt.

Reluctantly, she hands over her beloved Redthorn and Robb's dagger, which is sheathed next to it. As the Dothraki man stalks away from her, she glances over her shoulder to see their boat being picked up and carried away. She arches an eyebrow, exchanging a disconcerted look with Davos.

"Please," Missandei calls. "This way."

Rose hesitates, staring after the boat. Her stomach twists into knots, the further away it goes. Jon gives her a soft pat on the back, and together, they follow after the crew heading towards the castle. He gestures to their soldiers to wait on the shore.

"Where are you from?" Davos asks Missandei, walking at her side. "I can't place the accent."

"I was born on the Island of Naarth."

"Ah," Davos grins, widely. "I hear it's beautiful down there. Palm trees and butterflies. Haven't been there myself." He watches as Missandei gives him a polite nod, and quickens her pace, then glances over his shoulder at the siblings. "This place has changed," he mutters.

* * *

It takes longer than anticipated to cross the narrow stone walkway to the black-stone castle. Rose walks a little ahead of Jon and Tyrion, who continue strolling, side-by-side. It takes a while, but the conversation finally takes the inevitable turn. "And Sansa. I hear she's alive and well."

"Very much so," Rose replies.

"Does she miss me terribly?" Tyrion asks, dryly. Rose gives him a grin over her shoulder. Jon peers down at him, baffled. "A sham marriage. And unconsummated."

"I didn't ask," Jon murmurs.

"Well, it was. Wasn't." Tyrion clears his throat, his face turning pink beneath his beard. "Anyway . . . she's much smarter than she lets on."

Jon scoffs. "She's starting to let on."

"Good," Tyrion replies. "At some point, I want to hear how a Night's Watch recruit and a capital outlaw came to be the King and Queen in the North."

"As long as you tell us how a Lannister became Hand to Daenerys Targaryen."

Tyrion chuckles, darkly. "A long and bloody tale. To be honest, I was drunk for most of it."

Jon's smile dims, the closer they come to the enormous castle doors. "Our bannermen think we're fools for coming here," he mutters.

Tyrion nods. "Of course, they do," he says, plainly. "If I was your Hand, I would've advised against it." He glances at Jon's tense face. "General rule of thumb; Starks don't fare well when they travel south."

"True. But, I'm not a Stark."

"Yes, you are," Rose says, instantly.

Jon opens his mouth to protest, but it turns into a gasp. A strange roar that causes the walkway to rumble beneath them resounds from up above. Something enormous sweeps over her head, causing Rose to topple forwards, tripping onto the steps.

She manages to catch herself with her hands and looks up in time to see it flying away. A great beast, like an enormous lizard with black and crimson scales and red-black wings, soars into the clouds. Instantly, Rose feels light-headed, the sudden urge to vomit over the steps keeping her on the ground.

"I'd say you get used to them," comes Tyrion's voice from behind her. He outstretches his hand and tugs Jon to his feet. "But, you never really do."

Rose's eyes remain fixated on the beast, wondering how she hadn't spotted it before. And two more circle from further up, swirling around the castle turrets. Jon's hands grab her upper arms, and he hauls her up, onto her feet. It takes a moment for her legs to regain control beneath her.

"Come," Tyrion calls. "Their mother is waiting for you."

* * *

The doors open to the throne room. Rose follows Jon and Davos through, stealing a glance over her shoulder to see the Dothraki guards have come to a halt behind them.

A distance away from them, sitting on a throne carved from black, jagged rocks, is where she sits. A woman with violet eyes, skin whiter than the snowfall at Winterfell, and pale, silver curls that cascade down her back.

The Mother of Dragons.

For one wild moment, Rose thinks she looks like a better version of herself; her skin and hair a shade lighter, her features not so pointed or slender. But her face is unsmiling, save for the slight twinkle in her eye. Rose braces herself.

 _You're a wolf. A Stark of Winterfell. Make her remember you._

"You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, rightful heir to the Iron Throne, rightful Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, the Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains."

Rose's palms begin to sweat. With a small frown, she looks to Jon, who looks to Davos, who blinks like he's snapping out of a trance. "This is Jon Snow," he announces. His cheeks flush. "He's King in the North."

Across the room, Tyrion smirks to himself.

Jon seems to ease, gesturing to Rose. "My sister and Queen, Rose Stark of Winterfell," he introduces. Rose forces herself to at least smile.

"Thank you for travelling so far, my lords," Daenerys says. "My Lady." Her voice is startling, different to how Rose had imagined it. Kinder, softer. "I hope the seas weren't too rough."

Jon nods. "The winds were kind, Your Grace."

"Apologies," Davos interjects. "I have a Flea Bottom accent, I know. But, Jon and Rose are the King and Queen in the North, Your Grace. He's not a lord, nor is she a lady."

Daenerys's eyes narrow. "Forgive me—?"

"Your Grace, this is Ser Davos Seaworth," Tyrion introduces.

"Forgive me, Ser Davos. I never did receive a formal education, but I could have sworn I read the last King in the North was Torren Stark, who bent the knee to my ancestor, Aegon Targaryen, in exchange for his life and the lives of the Northmen. Torren Stark swore fealty to House Targaryen in perpetuity." She arches an eyebrow. "Or, do I have my facts wrong?"

"The last King in the North was our brother, Robb Stark," Rose says, keeping her voice calm, though her heart slams against her ribs. "He fought for the North's independence from the Seven Kingdoms."

Daenerys's violet eyes dart to hers. "Of course." She beams, warmly. "My apologies. Your brother's reign hasn't quite made it into the history books, yet. As far as I'm aware, no maester has any record of his victories."

Rose clenches her hands together in front of her. "Well, the North never forgets," she says, with a rigid smile. "Still plenty of time for all that."

Jon squirms, uneasily at her side, as the two queens look, fixedly at one another. "Nevertheless," Daenerys finally speaks, her voice slicing through the tension. "An oath is an oath. In perpetuity means — what does perpetuity mean, Lord Tyrion?"

"Forever."

"Forever," Daenerys echoes. Her face hardens. "So, I assume, My Lord, My Lady, you're here to bend the knee."

Jon sighs, forcing himself to look her in the eye. "We are not."

"Oh," Daenerys tuts, bemused. "Well, that is unfortunate. You've travelled all this way to break faith with House Targaryen?"

Rose lifts her chin, her fear beginning to vanish. "As far as we're aware, any oath House Stark swore was broken when the Mad King burned our grandfather alive," she says, coolly. "The Seven Kingdoms almost followed that fate."

"My father . . . was an evil man," Daenerys confesses, wincing. She squirms, then takes a breath and forces herself to look between the two siblings, her eyes imploring. "On behalf of House Targaryen, I ask your forgiveness for the crimes he committed against your family. And, I ask you not to judge a daughter by the sins of her father." She pauses, waiting, but neither of them responds. "Our two houses were allies for centuries. And those were the best centuries the Seven Kingdoms have ever known. Centuries of peace and prosperity with a Targaryen sitting on the Iron Throne, and a Stark serving as Warden of the North."

Daenerys looks from Jon to Rose, who still has a small, dubious frown creasing her brow. "I am the last Targaryen. You, Lady Rose, are Ned Stark's eldest trueborn child. Honour the pledge your ancestor made to mine. Bend the knee and I will name you Wardeness of the North. Together, we will save this country from those who would destroy it."

Rose hesitates. Her mind goes frantic with the request, not forming a coherent thought. She looks to Jon, who doesn't meet her gaze, keeping his trained on the floor. He looks so dejected, that suddenly, she is no longer bewildered, but angry — dismissing her is one thing. But to cast her brother aside so blatantly . . .

"You are not liable for the crimes of your father," she decides, firmly. "Just as we are not honour-bound to the vows of our ancestor."

Daenerys's face sets. "Then, why are you here?"

"Because we need your help," Jon says. "And you need ours."

Daenerys arches an eyebrow. She peers at Tyrion from across the room, who gazes back at her, muddled. "Did you see three dragons flying overhead when you arrived?" she asks, sharply.

 _Here we go._

Jon huffs, exasperated. "I did."

"And did you see the Dothraki, all of whom have sworn to kill for me?"

"They're hard to miss."

"But, still, I need your help?"

"Not to defeat Cersei," Davos cuts in. "You could storm King's Landing tomorrow and the city would fall. Hell, we almost took it, and we didn't even have dragons."

"Almost," Tyrion echoes.

"The fastest way to win this war is to storm the capital," Rose says. "You haven't done that. I don't know you, but I assume it's because you don't want to reduce thousands of innocent people to ashes." Daenerys blinks, as though this has struck a chord with her. "If Cersei were in your position, she'd have done so by now."

She raises her eyebrows. "Still, that doesn't explain why I need your help."

Jon swallows. "Because, right now, Rose and I, you and Cersei, and everyone else . . . we're children playing at a game screaming that the rules aren't fair."

Daenerys scowls at Tyrion. "You told me you liked this man," she growls.

"I do."

"In the time since he's met me, he's refused to call me queen, stood aside while his sister scolded me for crimes I didn't commit, refused to bow, and now he's calling me a child."

Rose grits her teeth.

"I believe he's calling all of us children," Tyrion mutters. "Figure of speech."

Jon sighs, frustrated. "Your Grace, everyone you know will die before winter's over if we don't defeat the enemy to the north."

"As far as I can see, _you_ are the enemy to the north," Daenerys snaps.

"We are not your enemies. The dead are the enemy."

Daenerys pauses, disdainful. "The dead," she repeats. With sharp, incredulous eyes, she fixes Tyrion with a glare. "Is that another figure of speech?"

"The Army of the Dead is on the march," Jon insists.

Tyrion frowns. "The Army of the Dead?"

Jon turns to him. "You don't know me well, My Lord, but do you think I am a liar or a madman?" he asks.

"No, I don't think you're either of those things."

"The Army of the Dead is real," Jon persists, growing more and more frustrated by the second. "The White Walkers are real; the Night King is real. I've seen them. If they get past the Wall and we're squabbling amongst ourselves—" he moves forward, but jerks to a stop when the Dothraki guards reach for their weapons. "—we're finished," Jon concludes, bashfully.

Daenerys pauses. "I was born at Dragonstone," she says, thoughtfully. "Not that I can remember it." She gets to her feet and steps away from her throne, towards the stone steps leading from the podium. "We fled before Robert's assassins could find us. Robert was your father's best friend, no? I wonder if your father knew his best friend sent assassins to murder a baby girl in her crib. Not that it matters now, of course."

Rose tenses. With a hardened look, Daenerys begins to descend the steps towards them. "I spent my life in foreign lands. So many men have tried to kill me. I don't remember all of their names. I have been sold like a brood mare. I've been chained and betrayed, raped and defiled. Do you know what kept me standing through all those years in exile? Faith. Not in any gods. Not in myths and legends. In myself. In Daenerys Targaryen."

Her eyes dart between Jon and Rose, cold like steel, as she finishes the final few steps and crosses the room to stand in front of them. "The world hadn't seen a dragon in centuries until my children were born," she says, fiercely. "The Dothraki hadn't crossed the sea. Any sea. They did for me. I was born to rule the Seven Kingdoms. And I will."

Jon nods, solemnly. "You'll be ruling over a graveyard if we don't defeat the Night King," he rasps.

"The war against my sister has already begun," Tyrion points out, stepping forward. "You can't expect us to halt hostilities and join you in fighting . . . whatever you saw beyond the Wall."

"You don't believe him," Davos says, plainly. "I understand that. It sounds like nonsense." He looks to Jon, who nods in bashful agreement. "But, if destiny has brought Daenerys Targaryen back to our shores, it has also made Jon Snow and Rose Stark the crowned rulers in the North."

"Those terrible things that happened to you also happened to her, _tenfold_ ," he says, gesturing to Rose. A jolt slams into her chest, but she refuses to let it show on her face. "Not that long ago, I might add. The things she suffered to take her home back would put any other soul in an early grave. Yet, here she stands. The first Queen in the North, chosen by her people."

Daenerys's gaze flits to hers. Rose meets it, trying to steady her breathing.

"You were the first to bring the Dothraki to Westeros," Davos continues. "Jon was the first to make allies of Wildlings and Northmen. He was named Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. He was named King in the North. Not because of his birthright. He has no birthright. He's a damn bastard. All those hard sons of bitches chose him as their leader . . . because they believe in him. All those things you don't believe in, he faced those things. He fought those things for the good of his people. He risked his life for his people. He took a knife in the heart for his people. He gave his own—"

Jon's head whips around to give him a firm look. Davos takes a breath, and tries again, calmer. "If we don't put aside our enmities and band together, we will die. And then it doesn't matter whose skeleton sits on the Iron Throne."

"If it doesn't matter, you might as well kneel," Tyrion insists, gently. "Swear your allegiance to Queen Daenerys. Help her to defeat my sister and together, our armies will protect the North."

"There's no time for that," Jon cries. "There's no time for any of this! While we stand here debating—"

"It takes no time to bend the knee. Pledge your sword to her cause."

Something inside Rose snaps. "Why?" she demands, seething.

Tyrion blinks, taken aback, and falls silent. Her glare flickers to Daenerys. With narrowed eyes, she steps closer to her, ignoring the ripple of flinching from the Dothraki soldiers.

"You ask us not to judge you on the sins of your father, yet your entire claim to the throne rests on his name. Our father fought to overthrow the Mad King. The North was stolen from us by tyrants and we took it back. You stand there and ask us to surrender to a queen we don't know when there's an entire kingdom relying on us to protect them." She shakes her head, her fists clenched. "How is that fair?"

Daenerys presses her lips together. "You're right," she says, softly. "It's not. It _is_ fair to point out that I'm the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. By declaring yourself the crowned rulers of the northern-most kingdom, you are in open rebellion."

Footsteps come dashing into the throne room. Rose looks over her shoulder, and her eyes blow wide when she spots Lord Varys entering the room, a grave look on his face. He sweeps past her and goes to Daenerys's side, whispering, urgently in her ear.

When he steps back, Daenerys has a glint in her eyes. "You must forgive my manners," she says, looking to the Northmen. "You'll all be tired after your long journey. We'll have baths drawn for you and supper sent to your rooms."

She turns to her Queensguard and utters a command in Dothraki. Then, she heads back up the stone steps. "Are we your prisoners?" Jon asks, stiffly.

Daenerys halts and looks over her shoulder. "Not yet."

Rose glares after her as she heads back up to the throne. With a frustrated huff, she follows the Queensguard, storming out of the room, Jon and Davos trailing, silently behind her.

* * *

As night falls, Rose sits on the enormous window-ledge in her chambers, her knees drawn up to her chest, staring out at the shore. The ocean slamming against the rocks makes her think of Theon. He'd once told her she had eyes like the sea. Back before the war had started, and Winterfell had vanished from their grasp. A far simpler time. Her chest aches, thinking about it.

A sharp knock at her door makes her jump. "Come in," she calls.

Jon's face pokes around the door. He has a steely look on his face that hasn't changed since they left the throne room. It makes her swallow. He closes the door behind him and crosses her chambers, sharply tugging off his gloves.

Rose smiles, weakly. Her head droops back against the wall. "We're prisoners on this island. Just like Sansa predicted."

Jon nods, clenching his gloves. "Perhaps if you'd spoken softer to her . . ."

She pauses, then straightens up. Her eyes narrow. "Are you scolding me?"

"Try as I might, I won't be able to relate to a single thing she's going through," he says, his voice raising. Rose blinks, startled at his tone. "I brought you with me because you're a queen. A queen who knows what it's like to be persecuted by so many."

She shakes her head. "So, what do you want from me?"

"To build some common ground with her. And instead, you—"

"I'm not apologising for confronting her with the truth," Rose snaps, the brimming anger locking her muscles in place. Jon closes his mouth and glares back at her. "I was stupid to think she could be won over with flattery and politeness. She's too clever for all that. We have to give her proof. We have to . . . _do something_ , which we can't so long as we're stuck on this bloody island!"

A hollow laugh escapes her. She averts her gaze, staring out the window. Jon sighs and hangs his head. Neither of them says anything for a while, soaking up the tension. Eventually, he crosses over to her and perches on the window ledge.

Rose sighs through gritted teeth, the sudden urge to cry making her breath tremble. "I didn't mean to let you down," she says, her voice cracking.

"No, that's not—" Jon cuts himself off. Gazing at her, he takes her hand, which rests atop her knee. "Don't get upset," he pleads.

She nods, staring down at their entwined hands. "We can't leave here with nothing," she whispers. "If we can't make her an ally, at the very least we need to get the dragonglass."

Jon releases her, staring at the opposite wall. "How do we do that?"

Rose chews on her bottom lip, thinking. "Daenerys is — she's difficult, but Tyrion can be convinced. He _wants_ us to build an alliance. That's why he invited us here. If there's anyone who can convince her into lending a hand, it's him." Jon tilts his head to give her an uncertain look. She shrugs. "It's got to be worth asking."

* * *

 _Sansa,_

 _Jon and I have arrived safely at Dragonstone and are being treated kindly, for the time being. Queen Daenerys has no intention of helping us with our cause while we remain an independent kingdom. To bend the knee would be to submit to a southern ruler, which is the last thing we wish to do. For now, Lord Tyrion will relay our request to mine the dragonglass._

 _Please ensure that the current occupants of the castle will have enough food to last until winter's end. The armies that intend to return to Winterfell should be notifying you to prepare for this. Make sure you are in regular conversation with our bannerman. Should you have any trouble, please write._

 _Matters regarding the Arryn forces should be discussed with me, as well as Lord Baelish. I do not trust that he will concern me with them himself. Additionally, any news from the Wall should come straight to either Jon or myself._

 _I love you. I miss you. I trust that you're doing a wonderful job._

 _Your sister,_

 _Rose_

* * *

Rose walks into the throne room to find it empty, save for the one person she's been looking for, perched on the stone steps. He looks up, eyebrows raised at the wine flagon and two cups in her hands. "If that's for me, you're my favourite person on this miserable island."

"I need a drink. And a companion."

"You've come to the right man." Tyrion taps the spot beside him.

* * *

An hour later, as the sun sets over Dragonstone, the pair are quite happily drunk, laughing giddily to themselves on the steps. Rose swallows back her cup, draining it, having lost count of what number she is on now, and looks into it, pouting. "They don't give you nearly enough wine, do they?"

"They do," Tyrion grins. "You just drank it all." Rose snorts, in an unladylike fashion. She lets out an idle sigh, her head swimming in a disoriented haze. "What do you think of her?" he asks.

Rose arches an eyebrow. "Mother of Dragons. She's . . . different than I expected. More defensive."

Outstretching a hand, Tyrion picks up the flagon and pours her another cup. "There's a lot at stake for her," he explains. "She's a queen without a kingdom. You understand that better than anyone."

"I do." Glancing at Tyrion, Rose finds him peering at her with big, doe eyes. It makes her sigh. "I didn't come here to disrespect her or shame her for crimes she didn't commit. Came to make an ally of her." Her finger rubs around the rim of her glass and she takes a large, much-needed swig.

Tyrion nods. "Good. She wants the same from you."

"No, she doesn't. She wants subordinates. Not equals." Rose thinks for a moment, then splutters with drunken laughter. "You're a proper idiot if you thought it would be this simple."

"I didn't," Tyrion objects, though he grins, too. "You Northerners are as stubborn as mules." He pauses, then angles his body so he is facing her, looking her, squarely in the eye. "Her followers aren't loyal to her because of her birth-right. They love her, truly. She protects them, no matter the cost. I remember seeing that same desire in you, the day Joffrey stripped and beat your sister in front of the southern court. You intervened without a thought to your own safety."

Rose flinches. In her reeling head, the memories seep through. The flat of Meryn's blade slapping across the back of her sister's legs, his meaty hand flying out to punch Rose in the face, and his heavy boots, slamming into her ribs. Her first, true dose of pain.

"You defend what matters to you," Tyrion continues, softly. "She does the same. You're more alike than you think."

Rose hums, not saying anything. Her gaze swivels to the red liquid swimming around in her cup. "Jon tells me the Greyjoy fleet was intercepted along the Narrow Sea," she says.

"It was."

Another painful ache fills her chest. "Theon was on one of those ships."

"It's quite possible he made it out alive," Tyrion points out, but his tone betrays the likeliness of this. Not wanting to cry, Rose bites down, hard on her bottom lip. He studies her. "What is it between you and the Greyjoy boy?"

She laughs, weakly. "I've never been sure." Glancing at him, Tyrion's warm eyes, green like olives, peer back at her, waiting. She sucks in a breath. "When I was a little girl, I had all these notions in my head about who I was supposed to be. A daughter, a sister, and, someday, someone's wife. And Theon just — he snuck up on me. He was wild and exciting, and everything became him. He brought something out of me that I never knew was there. But, it felt right. Despite the things he did, being with him . . . it's made me who I am," she finishes, the realisation of this hitting her, squarely in the chest. "I never told him that."

"You'll get the chance," Tyrion promises, gently. Rose smiles at him and he raises his cup. "The Wolf and the Kraken. There's an interesting story."

She giggles and clinks her goblet against his. The sound makes her head ring. At that moment, footsteps creep into the room. Rose looks up to see her brother entering, sighing in exhaustion when he spots her. "Oh, dear," she chuckles.

"Been looking everywhere for you," Jon grouches, crossing over to them.

Rose lifts an eyebrow. "Daenerys accepted. She's going to let us mine the dragonglass."

"Aye." He looks oddly relieved.

"In exchange for?" Rose looks to Tyrion.

He shrugs. "Consider it a gesture of goodwill."

She scoffs. "Or, a favour she'll hold us to," she mutters.

Tyrion tuts, sternly. "Enough politics. Have a drink with us, Snow."

Jon shakes his head. "It's been a long day," he says, looking to Rose. "We should both get some rest."

Rose rolls her eyes. "Such a bore."

Jon watches as she starts to push herself to her feet, and his hands go out, ready to catch her if she stumbles. "You'll think different when you're hurling into your chamber pot tomorrow."

"I am not _that_ drunk." The second she straightens into a standing position, her head spins, dramatically. Next thing she knows, she has tripped over the steps and fallen, right into Jon's awaiting arms. He props her up, but her legs have turned rickety beneath her. "It gets worse when you stand," she murmurs.

Jon steadies her. "This the new plan?" he asks Tyrion, dryly. "Get my sister drunk enough to bend the knee?"

"Daenerys is not a patient woman," Tyrion warns. "Sleep on what I said, and come to me when you realise I'm right." His gaze flits to Rose, who grins back at him with a soft, drunken giggle. "Thank you for the drink, Lady Rose."

Rose winks. "Same again tomorrow night?"

"Don't hold your breath," Jon murmurs.

Giving up on trying to make her walk, he picks her up and swings her, with ease, over his shoulder. Rose lets out a squeal, putting her hands on his back to balance herself. The position does nothing to help with the sudden onset of sickness. Meekly, she lifts her chin and waggles her fingers at a chortling Tyrion as her brother carries her out of the throne room.

* * *

 **A/N:** a frosty first meeting for the two queens . . . will their relationship improve? Will we see Theon and Rose reunited once more? Let me know what you think!


	64. The Spoils of War

**The Spoils of War**

"Isn't their survival more important than your pride?"

* * *

Rose walks across the beach and into the mouth of the vast cave, finding him standing in the middle, watching his men begin to unload their supplies for mining. He has a torch in his hand, studying the dragonglass walls.

"You look contemplative," she remarks, standing at his side.

Jon doesn't look around. "It's not going to be easy to mine," he says, sounding distressed. "Write to Sansa. We'll probably be here longer than expected." He walks further into the cave, and Rose walks, pensively at his side. "Not that it matters. Daenerys won't let us go home until we bend the knee."

Rose rolls her eyes. "A king and a queen shouldn't need permission to leave," she grumbles. Turning her head, she sees Jon has stopped, abruptly in his tracks. Her eyes narrow at the grim look on his face. "You're considering it."

Jon huffs, frustrated. He begins walking again, plunging further into the darkness of the cave. "Unless we can show her proof that the White Walkers exist, I don't know what else to do. We're running out of time."

It takes a moment for Rose's legs to start working beneath her again. She stumbles after him, carefully, so as not to trip on the rocks. "After everything the North has suffered at the hands of a southern ruler, would you so readily give it back?"

"They'll suffer far worse if we try to defend the North with only our armies."

Rose scowls at his back. "We surrender the North and what happens?" she asks, fuming. "Daenerys gives up everything — the Dothraki, the Unsullied, and her dragons — to go North and fight an enemy she doesn't believe exists?"

"She will ride North with us and we will _prove_ that he does."

"Alright, then what?" Rose demands. She stops walking, not able to hear their men behind them anymore, and Jon stops a distance ahead, refusing to turn and look at her. "Her entire life is driven towards the Iron Throne. If we survive winter having bent the knee to her, she'll drag our people into another southern war."

He whips around. "You're the one who told me the North has to come first," he thunders, his voice booming against the cave walls. "We have a chance here to defeat the Night King _and_ make an ally!"

"Not an ally!" Rose shouts, angrily. "A new queen!"

Jon's eyes blow wide when the words leave her mouth. Rose huffs, gritting her teeth and averting her gaze to the floor. For a split second, she's ashamed, feeling her brother's eyes softening on her. Then, she looks at him, her eyes ablaze.

"The North is ours," she snaps. "Yours and mine. Do you understand me?"

Jon presses his lips together. Slowly, he closes the distance between them and puts a hand on her shoulder. "You're a good queen," he tells her, softly, his anger vanished. "And, I trust you. Whatever decision you make, I'll stand by it. I promise." With a sigh, he removes his hand. "But, we still need proof."

Rose swallows, nodding. His torch shifts in his hand, and the light bounces off the wall behind him. Something catches her eye. With a frown, she peers at the opposite wall. Jon notices the expression on her face and follows her gaze.

He shines the torch closer to the black wall. Tentatively, he walks forward and his hand stretches out to graze against the carving of the Night King, the piercing blue eyes bright against the stone.

* * *

Rose paces near the mouth of the cave, her arms folded across her chest as she waits. The more time that passes, the more her stomach twists into nervous knots. She spares a glance into the darkness every now and then, but each time, she is met with nothing but a view of black emptiness.

If it doesn't work, if she doesn't believe, then it will have all been for nothing. Putting their necks on the line and disregarding the advice of all the Northern lords that put their trust in them . . . it will all be a waste.

Finally, she hears the soft pad of footsteps coming towards her. Whipping around, she holds her breath at the sight of Jon and Daenerys emerging from the cave. Her eyes are fixed on the ground, wide like she has just seen a ghost. And Jon looks exhausted. But, when she lifts an inquiring eyebrow, he returns it with a nod.

Rose cannot help the small grin that breaks out across her face. The relief almost makes her giddy. Until she hears a separate pair of footsteps coming from behind her. She turns as Jon and Daenerys reach her side. The three of them approach Tyrion and Varys, who come to a stop a short distance from the cave, both rigid and shuffling their feet.

"What is it?" Daenerys asks, instantly terse.

Tyrion swallows. "We took Casterly Rock."

"That's very good to hear." Daenerys eyes them, confusedly, as Tyrion shares an agitated glance with Varys. Her smile dims. "Isn't it?"

* * *

Rose hangs back with Jon and Davos, chewing on her lip, as Daenerys storms across the beach, managing to stomp with emphasis, despite the soft sand ground. "You'll want to discuss this amongst yourselves," Davos calls. "Perhaps—"

"You will stay," Daenerys orders, shortly. Rose glances up at Jon to see an equally uncomfortable look on his face. "All my allies are gone. They've been taken from me while I've been sitting here on this island."

"We still have the largest army," Tyrion points out.

"Who won't be able to eat because Cersei has taken all the food from the Reach."

"Call Grey Worm and the Unsullied back," Tyrion urges. "We still have enough ships to carry the Dothraki to the mainland. Commit to the blockade of King's Landing. We have a plan. It's still the right plan."

"The right plan?" Daenerys thunders, whirling around to glare at him. Rose comes to a quick stop along with the others, Jon bumping into her from behind at the sudden halt. "Your strategy has lost us Dorne, the Iron Islands, and the Reach!"

Tyrion hangs his head. "If I have underestimated our enemies—"

"Our enemies?" Daenerys exclaims, snidely. "Your family, you mean. Perhaps you don't want to hurt them after all."

Even Rose flinches at her cruel words. A sudden, deep roar from across the ocean turns her head. Swirling amidst the blueness in the sky, hovering over the waters, are her enormous creatures, who still manage to make her blood run cold at the sight of them.

Daenerys peers at them. "Enough with the clever plans." When she looks back to Tyrion, her eyes burn like wildfire. "I have three large dragons. I'm going to fly them to the Red Keep."

Tyrion shakes his head. "We've discussed this—"

"My enemies are in the Red Keep," Daenerys snaps. "What kind of a queen am I if I'm not willing to risk my life to fight them?"

"A smart one."

Daenerys rolls her eyes, scornful. She pauses, thinking, then looks, directly at Jon. "What do you think I should do?" she asks.

Jon's head snaps up, startled. He sneaks a glance at Rose, who says nothing, but stares back at him with wide, perplexed eyes. "I would never presume to—"

"I'm at war," Daenerys interrupts, curtly. "I'm losing." She walks towards them, her eyes trained, imploringly, on his face. "What do you think I should do?"

Jon gazes back at her. Together, they share a moment that seems so private, Rose feels her stomach twisting into knots. With a sigh, Jon turns to look out across the sea at the circling dragons. "I never thought that dragons would exist again," he says. "No one did."

Steeling himself, he looks her in the eye. "The people who follow you know that you made something impossible happen. Maybe that helps them believe that you can make other impossible things happen. Build a world that's different from the shit one they've always known." He nods towards the dragons. "But, if you use them to melt castles and burn cities, you're not different. You're just more of the same."

Daenerys hesitates. Her face seems to soften and she looks, anguished, towards the beasts fluttering over the waves. Rose stares at her, her eyes narrowing into a sharp glare.

* * *

Jon, Rose, and Davos descend the stone steps towards the walkway. The sun has started to peek through the clouds, the nights having sleeted with terrible rainstorms, the beach warming on the ground.

Davos tilts his head to examine the thoughtful look on Rose's face. "You don't like her, do you?" he asks.

Rose scowls. "She had to be talked out of burning a city alive," she says, bitterly, ignoring the hard look Jon gives her. "Forgive me if I have some scepticism on her ability to rule."

He nods, looking to Jon. "What do you think of her?"

"I think she has a good heart."

Davos raises his eyebrows, bemused. "A good heart?" he echoes. "I've noticed you staring at her good heart."

Rose's head whips around to peer at Jon. He looks at her and chuckles, ruefully. "There's no time for that." His smile dims at the sour look on her face. "I saw the Night King, Rose. I looked into his eyes. How many men do we have in the North to fight him? 10,000? Less?"

"Fewer," Davos murmurs.

Jon frowns. "What?"

"What did she say to you?" Rose asks, abruptly.

Jon's jaw sets. "She asked if the North's survival is more important than my pride."

Rose gapes at him. "She knows the truth, and yet she refuses to face it until we bend the knee," she exclaims, laughing, incredulously. "That's the _epitome_ of pride! But, that's all fine, if she has a good heart. That'll help us win the war."

Jon scowls at her but says nothing. His lip twitching, Davos gives her a sideways glance. "You weren't disciplined much as a child, were you, Your Grace?" he muses. "Explains the sarcastic edge."

Rose turns to give him a scathing glare, but Jon chuckles, his frustration gone. "That's Rose," he murmurs. "Golden child." But, his eyes are fond as he peers at her, and she shakes her head, finding herself grinning back at him, in spite of herself.

"Speaking of good hearts, Missandei of Naarth," Davos announces.

She stands along the path, gazing towards the ocean. At the mention of her name, she turns and smiles, brightly. "Ser Davos," she greets, her voice gracious and warm. "My Lady. Lord Snow."

"King Snow," Davos corrects, then frowns. "Isn't it? No. That doesn't sound right. King Jon?"

Jon makes a face. "It doesn't matter."

"Forgive me," Missandei interjects. "But, may I ask a question?"

"Of course."

"Your name is Jon _Snow_ ," she begins, sounding hesitant. "But, your sister's name is Rose _Stark_."

Jon nods, swallowing. "I'm a bastard. Rose and I are half-siblings." He studies the small, uncomprehending frown on Missandei's face. "My mother and father weren't married."

"Is the custom different in Naarth?" Davos asks.

Missandei shakes her head. "We don't have marriage in Naarth," she explains, still perplexed. "So, the concept of a bastard doesn't exist."

Davos arches an eyebrow. "That sounds . . . liberating."

Jon pauses. "Why did you leave your homeland?" he asks her.

"I was stolen away by slavers."

Rose winces. "That's awful." Missandei smiles back at her, sadly.

"If I may," Davos pipes up, curious as ever. "How did a slave girl come to advise Daenerys Targaryen?"

Missandei's eyes light up. "She bought me from my master and set me free."

"That was good of her," Davos remarks. He sucks in a breath, as though he fears he's overstepping. "Of course, you're serving _her_ now, aren't you?"

"I serve my queen because I want to serve my queen," Missandei explains, softly. "Because I believe in her."

Jon frowns. "And, if you wanted to sail home to Naarth tomorrow—"

"Then, she would give me a ship and wish me good fortune."

Rose arches an eyebrow. "You believe she'd do that?"

Missandei's face hardens. "I know it," she says, firmly. "All of us who came with her from Essos, we believe in her. She's not our queen because she's the daughter of some king we never knew. She's the queen we chose."

Davos lets out a low whistle. "Will you forgive me if I switch sides?" he mutters. Rose grins, shaking her head again.

Across the ocean, something comes into view. It turns all of their heads, each of them squinting in the sunlight to make it out. Jon discerns the kraken sigil. "Is that a Greyjoy ship?" he asks.

He looks over his shoulder, wondering why she hasn't replied. Instead, he finds her sprinting down the walkway, towards the beach, her hair flying out behind her.

* * *

Rose reaches the beach, her face flushed, breathless. It's as if her body knows it's him before he has even come into view. The ship has anchored a distance from the shore, as a handful of Ironborn soldiers haul a dinghy boat across the tide.

He's at the front, half-carrying the prow, his trousers drenched in ocean water. Only then, when the boat is set down, does he turn and see her. From where she stands, she can read her name falling from his lips.

She can feel Jon and Davos and the Dothraki soldiers reaching her side, but she ignores the lot of them. A sound, half a sob, half a laugh escapes her, tears sliding down her cheeks. Her body lurches forward, and she's bolting across the beach to meet him.

Theon moves towards her, his arms opening. Her body slams into his, and he practically lifts her off the ground, his strong arms enfolding her. _Theon_.

Rose buries her face in his shoulder, inhaling the saltwater smell, clinging to him as tightly as she dares. The relief that courses through her makes her sob, hard, muffled against his shoulder, and his arms tighten around her at the sound.

Finally, he sets her down and holds her at arms-length. "What are you—? How—?" the words turn into a giddy laugh, as his dry, warm hands cradle her face. "You're alright."

" _You're_ alright," Rose gasps, her breath hitching.

Theon kisses her forehead and tugs her against his chest, hugging her again. Rose closes her eyes, settling into his embrace. When she opens them, she is suddenly aware of their company, as Jon and the others close in on them. He has a brooding look on his face.

"We heard your uncle attacked your fleet," Davos calls. "We thought you were dead."

Rose pulls away from Theon. He watches her, carefully, as she wipes her face, his jaw clenching. "I should be," he replies, bleakly.

"Your sister?"

Theon swallows. "Euron has her." He glances to his crew, each of whom glares back at him, surly looks on their faces. "I came to ask the Queen to help me get her back."

"The Queen is gone," Jon says, shortly.

Theon frowns. "Where did she go?"

* * *

 **A/N:** Theon and Rose reunited again! Will Rose be the one to stir him into a place of action? Will he stay in Dragonstone with her? Will they FINALLY confess their love for one another?


	65. Eastwatch

**A/N:** contains explicit sexual (i.e. rough sex) content.

* * *

 **Eastwatch**

"So, we fight and die, or we submit and die. I know my choice. A soldier should know his."

* * *

Rose stares down at the letter in her hands, eyes stinging. She rereads the words on the page for a third time, the Chamber of the Painted Table silent and waiting. "I thought Arya was dead," Jon says, flatly. "I thought Bran was dead."

"I'm happy for you," Daenerys says, smiling. It dims when she studies the look on his face. "You don't look happy."

"Bran saw the Night King and his army marching towards Eastwatch," he says, tensely. "If they make it past the Wall—"

"The Wall has kept them out for thousands of years," Varys notes.

"Jon." He turns at the sound of his name. Rose gazes at him, with watery eyes, her fingers tight against the letter in her hands. Her brow furrows together. "We're out of time," she whispers. "We have to go home."

He stares at her, and nods, his jaw clenched.

"You said you don't have enough men."

"Our numbers are slim, but we'll have to make do." Rose takes a breath to calm herself and looks to Daenerys. "Unless you've had a change of heart."

"And give the country to Cersei?" she exclaims. "As soon as I march away, she marches in."

"Perhaps not," Tyrion interjects. All heads swivel to him. He has a pensive, but troubled look on his face. "Cersei thinks the Army of the Dead is nothing but a story made up by wet nurses to frighten children. What if we prove her wrong?"

Rose shakes her head. "That woman won't set a foot in the north. Not if I have anything to do with it, at least."

"So, bring the dead to her," he implores.

Daenerys frowns. "I thought that was what we were trying to avoid."

"We don't have to bring the whole army. Only one soldier."

"Is that possible?" Davos questions.

Jon is silent for a moment, mulling it over. "The first wight I ever saw was brought into Castle Black from beyond the Wall," he mutters.

"Bring one of these things down to King's Landing and show her the truth," Tyrion proposes.

"Anything you bring back will be useless unless Cersei grants us an audience," Varys counters, dryly. "And is somehow convinced not to murder us the moment we set foot in the capital."

"The only person she listens to is Jaime." Tyrion sucks in a short, grudging breath. "He might listen to me."

Rose bites down on her lip. "March through the gates of King's Landing, and you're a dead man," she says. "Unless . . ." her eyes dart to Davos, and it's not long before everyone else is looking at him, earnestly.

He squirms under their gazes. "I can smuggle you in," he says. "But, if the Goldcloaks were to recognise you, I'm warning you, I'm no fighter."

Tyrion nods, resigned.

"Well, it will all be for nothing if we don't have one of these dead men," Daenerys says.

"Fair point." Varys looks to Jon. "How do you propose to find one?"

Jon opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes to mind. Despondent, he stares down at the painted maps.

From across the room a man named Jorah, whom Rose had yet to converse with, speaks up. "With the Queen's permission, I'll go north and take one." Daenerys, for the first time, looks genuinely frightened as she peers up at him. "You asked me to find a cure so I could serve you," he tells her, softly. "Allow me to serve you."

At her side, Jon shifts from foot to foot, looking between the pair with steel in his eyes. "The Free Folk will help us," he says. "They know the real north better than anyone."

"They won't follow Ser Jorah," Davos points out.

"They won't have to."

Rose blinks, alarmed. She stares at him, but he doesn't look back, his focus instead, fixated on Daenerys.

"You can't lead a raid beyond the Wall," Davos exclaims, incredulous. "You're not in the Night's Watch anymore. You're King in the North."

"I'm the only one here whose fought them," Jon says, firmly. "I'm the only one here who knows them."

Daenerys purses her lips. "I haven't given you permission to leave."

Jon pauses. Then, he turns his head and fixes her with a hard, piercing look—that same look he gives Rose when he's disappointed in her; the look that makes her stomach flip. "With respect, Your Grace, I don't need your permission," he says, shortly. "I am a king. And I came here knowing that you could have your men behead me or your dragons burn me alive. I put my trust in you, a stranger, because I knew it was the best chance for my people. For all our people. Now, I'm asking you to trust a stranger because it's our best chance."

Daenerys peers back at him. Her eyes are pleading, glistening over. In one last resort, she looks to Rose. "What does the Queen in the North have to say about it?" she asks, quietly.

Rose stares down at the floor. Jon turns to look at her, watching the conflicting emotions cross her face. When she finally meets his gaze, the pain in her eyes makes him swallow. "You realise if this doesn't work, and you die, it'll all be for nothing," she rasps.

Jon moves towards her like he wants to hug her, but the present company holds him back. Instead, he squares his shoulders and gives her a sharp nod.

Rose sucks in a breath. "It's a decent plan," she decides, emptily, looking towards the watching room. "And, we're out of options."

Daenerys tenses, but says nothing.

* * *

Rose knocks, tentatively on the door. When she opens it, she finds him standing in front of the window. A tray of untouched food rests on the desk in front of him. "You should eat," she says, shutting the door.

He doesn't look around.

Rose sighs and steps, uneasily into the room. "Theon, he had an axe to her throat. There was nothing you could've done. Better she's alive than—"

"Alive and his prisoner," he mutters, his voice thick. "Euron cut through us like we were nothing. I was too weak to stop it." Through the reflection of him in the glass window, she's surprised to see tears shimmering in his eyes.

Quickly, she walks over to him and puts her hands on his shoulders, turning him to face her. "You're not weak," she whispers, running her fingers through the back of his hair.

At her touch, he wraps his arms around her waist and tips his forehead against hers. Rose closes her eyes, relishing in the feeling of being in his arms again. A powerful ache claws at her belly, the sudden need for him moving through her veins like fire. She had almost forgotten what true desire felt like.

At some point, she closes the distance between them. Their lips touch for a fleeting moment. A whimper escapes her when he deepens it, and he responds by running his hands over the sides of her body. The desire burns so intensely, she feels her legs going weak beneath her.

Then, his lips are taken away. "Aren't you a married woman?" he asks. It's meant to be a quip, but Rose's face falls. His smile dims when sudden, devastated tears form in her eyes. Theon sighs, frustrated. "I wish . . ."

"I know," Rose whispers. She smooths her hands over his chest, bunching up his shirt in her fists. "I'm going with Jon to Eastwatch."

Theon's face sets. "Are you mad?" he demands, clutching her hips tighter. "If anything happens to Jon out there, the North will need their Queen."

"Their Queen can hold her own," Rose insists, her lips twitching upwards into a smile. "I've grown quite versed in swordsmanship." The dubious look on his face should offend her. Instead, she gently reaches up and brushes her thumb against his cheek. "As much as I trust Jon, I need to see it," she explains, her voice trembling. "With my own eyes. I need to see the fate of everyone under my protection if I fail them."

Theon gives her a hard, glum look. She stares back at him, her chin lifted in resolution, and he suddenly smirks. "There's not much I can say to change your mind, is there?"

Rose grins, bashfully. "You should know that by now."

Theon studies her. His eyes flash, turning her skin warm at his gaze. She gasps as he suddenly jerks her closer by her hips, his mouth claiming hers. Melting into the kiss, Rose's hands instantly go to his tunic, tugging fervently at the strings that hold it together. He extracts his lips from hers long enough to unfasten her breastplate.

Breathless, she yanks his shirt over his head. Her hands smooth over his chest, which has broadened since his time at the Night's Watch. Theon grabs the hem of her shirt and pulls it over her head, her hair going wild as it cascades back down. They pull away piece after piece of clothing until they are both completely naked.

He stops. For a split second, Rose wonders why. Then, she realises, and instantly, she feels sick. Her body is still covered in Ramsay's ugly scars, the welt lines, cuts, and burn marks blemishing her porcelain skin.

She holds her breath, waiting. Theon's eyes dart over her body. He looks furious, his jaw clenching. Then, taking her by surprise, his hands skim over her shoulders, then back up, cradling her face in his hands. Looking her, squarely in the eye, he brings her lips in for a scorching kiss.

It doesn't last long. Quickly, he tugs apart, frowning. "Littlefinger . . ."

Rose gives him a look. "I might be dead soon," she whispers. "Don't make Littlefinger the last man I shared my bed with."

His lip twitches. "Jon will come looking for you soon."

Rose grins. She pulls him closer and envelops his mouth in a fleeting, but deep kiss, biting suggestively on his lower lip. "So, fuck me hard and fast, Greyjoy," she murmurs.

Theon lets out a low sound, somewhere between a moan and her name. His lips bury into the hollow of her neck, his hand gripping her beneath her thighs as he swoops her up, in his arms. She loops hers around his neck as he carries her over to the bed.

* * *

Theon breaks the kiss and his lips brush against her throat. Rose arches herself into him, slipping her hands through his hair, gripping it as his mouth latches around her hardened nipple. She bites down on her lip to suppress a moan when his teeth scrape against the sensitive skin, her body clenching around him.

His hips snap against hers harder than before, as demanded, one hand gripping her hip, the other braced at the side of her head. His pace slows, and he rams into her with short, almighty strokes, causing the bed to jerk beneath them. Each thrust sends whimpers tumbling out of Rose's mouth. She writhes beneath him at the sound of her name on his lips, wrapping her legs around the small of his back.

All too soon, their moans reach a crescendo, and Rose is falling over the edge again. She curls her fingers through his hair and kisses the soft skin of his neck as they both plunge into sparkling darkness. With one last gasp of her name, she feels Theon's release, and he collapses on top of her.

Rose holds her close to him, still kissing his neck. A thought, both horrible and divine strikes her; it has never, not once, been this good with anyone else.

Theon catches his breath and rolls to the side. He pulls her with him, holding her against his chest. She nuzzles into his warmth. "You're not as delicate as I remember," he pants, dropping a kiss onto her head.

"I've thicker skin," Rose croaks.

He hums, running his fingers through her hair. "Not sure how to feel about that."

Rose frowns. She props herself up on her elbow to look at him. He stares back at her, his brow furrowed, swallowing as his eyes dart over the damage on her body again. "I'm alright, Theon," she insists, cradling his face in her hand. "I wasn't for a long time, but I am, now."

Theon nods. He puts a soft hand on her hip, his thumb grazing the jagged welt lines there. Rose lets him trace the scars while she thinks. "Daenerys isn't going to stop trying to persuade us to bend the knee," she says, softly. "Should we keep refusing, _this_ ," she runs a hand over his chest, "might become a problem. You're loyal to her."

"I'm loyal to _you_ , too." Theon takes her hips and guides her onto his lap, straightening into a sitting position. His eyes bear into hers. "The things that I've done—"

"I've forgiven you for."

"But, I haven't forgiven myself," he says, sharply. "I'll never forgive myself." He cups her face in his hands. "I made a promise to spend every waking moment of the rest of my life trying to make it up to you. I intend to keep that promise."

Rose smiles, kindly. She wraps her arms around his shoulders and pulls him closer. Their cheeks graze against one another, and his lips dip down to kiss her shoulder. "When you wrote to me, you said there was something you wanted to tell me."

"I did."

"And?"

Theon draws his head back. A twinkle darts in his eye. "You don't get to hear it until you make it back to me alive."

Rose tuts, then grins. "I'll try my best."

Theon smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. Whatever he's thinking, he seems to push it aside quickly, as he gathers her up in his arms and kisses her, deeply. Rose moans, happily.

One of his hands slides up her back and knots in the back of her hair, giving it a small tug that breaks the kiss. "Could always make you stay," he growls against her throat.

"Hmh," Rose chuckles, delight coursing through her. She gasps when his hand slips between her legs, and the pad of his thumb runs along her entrance. "Not the same girl you can lock in her chambers or give a good hiding to," she says, whimpering as her hips squirm against his movements. "I'm a queen, now."

"It suits you," Theon murmurs. Without warning, his hand is gone, and he releases her hair. "Rose." She looks down to see his blue, doe eyes gazing up at her. His hand traces the cut lines along her collarbone. "I'll never add to these scars," he promises, in a small, guilt-ridden voice. "I'll never raise a hand, or anything else, to you again."

Rose nods, her cheeks turning pink at the memories. Pushing them aside, focusing on the true version of Theon that is in front of her, she laces her arms around his shoulders and kisses him. She sinks down onto his member, and he lets out an eager groan into her mouth, his hands smoothing over her arse.

A slight slap to her makes her gasp. She lifts her head, breaking the kiss, looking down at him in surprise. "Sorry." Theon smirks, his eyes twinkling. "Force of habit."

Rose erupts into giggles as his arms tighten around her, and his smiling face buries into the crook of her neck. "You're such a prick," she splutters. With a squeal, she finds herself being rolled onto her back, the sound of their laughter turning to moans of pleasure.

* * *

She enters the cave, smoothing down her hair. The Stark men bow their heads when she walks in, and Jon stands in the centre, turning when he hears vague mutters of her name. He takes one look at her and his face hardens. "You were gone some time."

"I was reading," Rose lies, uneasily. Jon raises his eyebrows, staring at her like a father might glare at a difficult child. She huffs. "Don't look at me like that."

"I'm not saying anything."

He averts his gaze to the men mining the walls. Rose feels a pang of guilt pierce, sharply at her chest. "You're my brother and I love you," she says, softly. "But, you don't get a say in . . . _this_ part of my life."

Jon nods. "Doesn't mean I have to like it." His deep brown eyes penetrate hers, his brow creasing. "I just want you to be safe," he rasps.

"I'm safe with Theon," Rose insists. "I trust him."

Jon winces. Before he can say anything else, a familiar voice calls out from behind them. "Begging your pardon, My King. My Queen."

Rose whips around to see Ser Davos approaching them with a warm smile. At his side walks a boy, a similar age to Jon, muscled with big, blue eyes, and fidgeting hands.

Jon grins. "You survived King's Landing."

"Yet again." Davos gestures to the boy. "Your Grace, this is—"

"It's Gendry, Your Grace," the boy interrupts, his voice shaking, but resolved. "I'm Robert Baratheon's son. Bastard son."

Rose's eyes blow wide. She looks to Jon, who appears equally startled, then to Ser Davos, who sighs. "He was meant to keep that to himself," he grumbles.

Gendry shrugs. "Our fathers trusted each other. Why shouldn't we?"

Rose bites down on her lip. She can't understand how she hadn't spotted it immediately; those beady blue eyes, the nose, the smile, his raven hair. It all screams of the Stag King. She glances at Jon, who is still gawking, at a loss for words.

"Your father came to Winterfell once," she says, meekly. "He invited us to the capital, to live in the Red Keep."

Gendry smiles, brightly. "I met yours in my shop."

Jon nods. "You're a lot leaner."

"And, you're a lot shorter," Gendry counters.

Rose splutters a laugh. Quickly, she presses her lips together. The smile vanishes from Jon's face as he leers at a bashful Gendry, then it returns in the form of a small chuckle.

"They were friends," Rose says, trying to stop grinning. "Good friends. Father told us all kinds of stories about him."

"All I ever knew was they fought together, and won," Gendry replies, all the amusement vanishing from his face. "Ser Davos told me where you're going, My King, My Queen, and why. Let me come with you."

"Don't be a fool," Davos barks. "You're not a soldier."

"No, but I'm a fighter," Gendry replies, fiercely. "And, he won't be needing a smith with a sword like that." He nods to Longclaw, which is sheathed in Jon's belt.

Rose arches an eyebrow. "Not everyone going up there are soldiers," she points out, eyeing Ser Davos.

He sighs. "You're at least decent with a blade, Your Grace."

"You know how to use one?" Jon asks Gendry. He shakes his head, grimly. "Well, that's a problem."

"Prefer a hammer," Gendry says, plainly.

Davos sighs again, louder this time. "He can handle himself," he grumbles, though he casts Gendry a steely glare.

Rose peers back and forth between them. Gendry stares back at her, imploringly, and with a shrug, she looks to Jon. "Could always use more help," she says, quietly.

"As my father used to say, it's better to be a coward for a minute than dead for the rest of your life," Davos murmurs.

Gendry's brow creases. "I owe you my life. Twice over. But, if what you said is true about what's up there, I can't wait out this war."

Davos blinks, then purses his lips. "Yeah, nobody mind me," he mutters, bitterly. "All I've ever done is live to a ripe old age."

* * *

Quietly, she slips back into his chambers, clutching her sheathed sword so it doesn't knock against the door. He is fast asleep, lying on his stomach on the canopy bed. Rose falters in her steps, a tremendous ache filling her chest. She had never noticed how his brow furrows in his sleep. He has never looked sweeter.

Softly, she crosses the room towards him. Slowly, so as not to wake him, she crouches on the floor next to the bed and runs her fingers through his curls. He stirs slightly, and lets out a little moan, but his eyes remain shut. Her heart aches. She would give anything to see those beautiful blue eyes one last time.

For a while, she sits there, watching him. Studying the dip in his cheekbones, his eyebrows, a shade lighter than his hair, and the darker stubble crossing his chin. Leaning closer, she plants a small, tender kiss atop of his head. Three words silently tumble from her mouth before she can stop them, and heartbroken tears form in her eyes.

Biting down on her lip, Rose straightens up, her hand falling from the softness of his hair. She turns on her heel and leaves the room, resisting the powerful urge to look back.

* * *

When she makes it out onto the beach, under the dreary, sleeting sky, Jon and Gendry and Ser Davos are emerging from the mouth of the cave. The Stark men are pushing their boats out to sea, crashing through the waves and shouting orders at one another.

Jon turns when he spots her coming towards the shore. He glimpses her saddened eyes, red from crying, and his jaw clenches as he swallows. She gives him what she hopes is a convincing smile, which he feebly returns.

Tyrion stands near a handful of Dothraki soldiers; Daenerys and Jorah near the shore, and he kisses her hand farewell. Jon and Rose approach them, their entourage at their backs.

Daenerys turns, and there is a small twinkle in her eyes when they land on Jon. "If I don't return, at least you won't have to deal with the King in the North anymore," he says, with a grin.

A smile touches her lips. "I've grown used to him."

Jon nods, evidently touched. "I wish you good fortune in the wars to come, Your Grace," he replies, courteously. Giving her one last, long look, he stalks over to the boat.

Rose sucks in a breath of salty, seawater air. Her stomach clenching, she goes to follow him, but something stops her. Mustering her resolve, she turns around and faces Daenerys. "I'm grateful that you were generous enough to help us," she says, relieved when she smiles, kindly back at her. "It may not be all we came for, but — but I'm sorry I didn't thank you sooner."

Daenerys nods, eyeing her. "I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to know you better," she confesses. "Queen to another Queen."

Rose blinks. Hearing her acknowledge her status for the first time since they arrived hits her, hard in the chest. She beams, the two women sharing a genuine moment of affection.

"Rose," comes Jon's voice.

Rose turns to see him standing at the prow of the boat, his boots buried in the wet sand. Clearing her throat, she looks, one last time to Daenerys. "Here's hoping there'll be a second chance," she says, wryly.

Daenerys grins. Rose looks over her shoulder at Tyrion, who stands behind her, his face grave. She winks at him and then heads over to the boat. "Heave!" Jon bellows.

Together, he, and Rose, and their men haul the boat out to sea.

* * *

Eastwatch is twice as miserable as Dragonstone. The looming stone castle sits across the shore, the waves rough as they crash against the mountains, the air considerably colder. Inside, the fire burning in the hearth does little to warm them.

"Isn't it your job to talk them out of stupid fucking ideas like this?"

"I've been failing at that job of late," Davos admits. He gives Jon a hard glare, but he merely grins in response.

Tormund looks to Rose. "How many other queens are there now?"

"Two," she replies.

A muddled frown creases his brow. "And you need to convince the one with the dragons or the one who fucks her brother?" he asks, so plainly, it makes Rose smirk, and Gendry chuckle at her side.

"Both," she replies. "Cersei doesn't trust in words. But, she trusts her own eyes." Grimacing, she gives Jon a sideways glance, whose eyes remain fixated on the floor. "We'll put the dead before them."

Tormund nods. "How many men did you bring?"

Jon glances at the crew gathered around the table. "Not enough."

Tormund leans closer. "The big woman?" he asks, eagerly. With a small, exasperated chuckle, Jon shakes his head. Tormund's hand clenches around his cup of ale, unable to keep the disappointment from his face.

"We were hoping some of your men could help," Jorah interjects.

"I'll be staying behind," Davos mutters. "I'm a liability out there, as you well know."

Tormund nods. "You are," he replies, frankly. Davos lifts his eyebrows but says nothing. Tormund leans closer to Jon. "You really want to go out there again?" he whispers. Jon looks him, squarely in the eye, and nods his head. "You're not the only ones."

* * *

Tormund leads them down a series of slippery staircases to the dank cells, which reek of blood and dirt. "My scouts found them a mile south of the Wall," he says, grimly. "Said they were on their way here."

Rose rounds the corner and her breath catches in her throat. Sitting in a long, narrow cell, empty save for a bench and a chamber pot in the corner, are three men.

The first has twinkling blue eyes that pierce through the bleakness of the cell, and bushy red hair that has receded at the top. Thoros of Myr. The second is also red of hair, with a patch across his eye that makes his face hard to discern. Beric Dondarrion.

And the third . . .

"You're the Hound," Jon rasps. "I saw you once at Winterfell."

His head turns from where he lies, on the bench, a blanket wrapped around him. His beady eyes dart across the crew outside the bars and settle on Rose. Sitting up, he fixes her with a dark, taunting glare. "Look who's still alive."

Rose's eyes narrow. "You said your scouts captured them?" she asks, glancing at Tormund. Her teeth grit together. "I'd congratulate the man who put this dog in a kennel," she snarls. "Last I saw you, you almost broke my hand."

The Hound pushes himself to his feet. "You put a knife to my throat," he rasps. He approaches the bars, looming over her. "Do it again, girl. I dare you." A low growl rips through his throat, his fists curling around the bars. "I'll be breaking more than your pretty hand."

Quickly, Jon moves between Rose and the bars, clenches them and rattles them. The Hound staggers backwards, away from the dark look on Jon's face.

"They want to go beyond the Wall, too," Tormund grumbles.

"We don't want to go beyond the Wall," Beric interrupts. "We have to. Our Lord told us that the Great War is coming—"

"Don't trust them," Gendry seethes. "Don't trust any of them." He steps closer to the bars, glaring through them. "They're the Brotherhood. And the last thing their lord told me to do was sell me to a red witch to be murdered."

"Thoros?" Jorah calls, softly. He shifts from where he sits, in the corner of the cell, and leans closer, peering. Jorah studies him. "I hardly recognised you."

Thoros grins. "Ser Jorah Mormont." His voice is hoarse and cracks like a stick. "They won't give me anything to drink down here. I haven't been feeling like myself."

Tormund's head turns, slowly. "You're a fucking Mormont," he snarls. His face twists with anger. "Like the last Lord Commander?"

Jorah faces him. "He was my father."

"He hunted us like animals," Tormund spits.

"You returned the favour, as I recall."

In the cell, Beric's face breaks out into a wide, wry smile. "Here we all are. At the edge of the world, at the same moment, heading in the same direction for the same reason."

"Our reasons aren't your reasons," Davos mutters.

"It doesn't matter what we think our reasons are." Beric pushes himself to his feet, his one good eye darting across the odd crew beyond the bars. "There's a greater purpose at work. And we serve it together, whether we know it or not. We may take the steps, but the Lord of Light—"

"For fuck's sake," the Hound barks. "Will you shut your hole?" He looks up, his scarred face half-irritated, half-impatient. "Are we coming with you or not?"

"Don't you want to know what we're doing?" Jorah asks.

Thoros, weak on his knees, pushes himself up from the corner of the room. "Is it worse than sitting in a freezing cell waiting to die?" he whispers, with a small, feeble chuckle.

"He's right," Jon murmurs. "We're all on the same side."

Gendry's glare whips to him. "How can we be?"

"We're all breathing."

Tormund drops the rusted keys into Jon's hand. Casting a wary glance between Rose and the Hound, who continue to glare daggers at one another, he jams the key into the lock and forces it open with a loud clatter.

* * *

The gates roar open, scraping on the snow ground before ascending into the air. The darkened tunnel is filled with a brilliant, white light, drowning out the gleam of the torches hanging from either of the walls. A wind whistles through, colder than anything Rose has ever felt in her life.

A deep clanging sound that booms straight down her spine sends her heart hammering in her chest. At the front of the procession, Jon glances over his shoulder at his peculiar crew, dressed in thick furs and leathers, faces paling against the cold.

His eyes find hers. Rose gazes back at him, her shuddering breath creating warm fog in the biting air. She can tell he is already regretting this, that he is considering ordering her back inside, ordering the lot of them back inside and aborting their task. But, the lift of her chin and pierce of her eyes sets him straight.

Jon turns his back and faces the snowfields. Bracing himself, he walks directly towards them. His crew follows behind him. A king, a queen, a disgraced knight, a hound, a wildling, a bastard, a red priest, and a man who's died ten times over marching to the ends of the earth.

* * *

 **A/N:** Rose is marching beyond the wall with the rest of the gang. She's proven herself more than capable with a sword, but this will be the first time we see her in proper battle-action. How do you think she'll manage?


	66. Beyond the Wall

**A/N:** my longest chapter ahead, so get comfortable! contains strong violence.

* * *

 **Beyond the Wall**

"Death is the enemy. The first enemy and the last. The enemy always wins, and we still need to fight him."

* * *

Never has a place so deadly been so beautiful. The vast, dark mountains are dusted with powdered snow, and the ground crunches beneath her with each heavy step. The more they walk, the warmer she becomes in her furs, save for the biting chill against her ears and nose.

Gendry remains silent and shuddering at her side. Jon quickens his pace, so he falls into step beside him, and angles his head to look at him. "You alright?"

Gendry nods, stiffly.

"Ever been north before?" Tormund asks.

"Never seen snow before." Gendry's voice trembles with the cold.

Tormund grins as the group reaches the peak of a sloping hill, the view of the clear sky dazzling them. "Beautiful, eh? I can breathe again. Down south, the air smells like pig shit."

"You've never been down south," Jon mutters.

"I've been to Winterfell."

"That's the North."

Tormund scoffs.

"How do you live up here?" Gendry demands. "How do you keep your balls from freezing off?"

Tormund chuckles. "You've got to keep moving. That's the secret. Walking's good. Fighting's better. Fucking's best."

Rose rolls her eyes. "There's not another woman within 100 miles of here," she points out.

Tormund eyes her, waggling his eyebrows. "We'll have to make do with what we've got," he teases.

Rose's head whips around to glare at him, and he chuckles at the dark look on her face. Jon gives him a sharp push forwards, but even he is grinning, shaking his head. The pair of them stagger forwards, and Gendry and Rose slow their paces, walking alongside one another.

Her breath creates warm mist in the biting air as she sighs. Straining, she angles herself to look at Gendry. "You don't seem very scared by all this," she notes.

He shrugs. "What's there to be scared of?"

Rose scoffs, arching an eyebrow. "You're right. We're only marching to the edge of the world towards the paragon of death." When she glances at him again, his lips have set in a grim line, his cheeks pink despite the cold. "It's alright to admit it," she says, softly. "Being brave doesn't mean you're not scared. In my experience, it's the only time you can be brave."

Gendry flinches, and he squirms. "Didn't feel comfortable telling the Queen in the North I might fill my pants," he murmurs.

It comes out so sincere, Rose cannot help but laugh. He glances at her, surprised, but smiles back at her, happily. Then, it dims. He opens his mouth, and closes it, focusing on the horizon.

She frowns. "You're doing it again."

"What, Your Grace?"

"Staring like there's something you want to tell me." Rose watches him grimacing from the corner of her eye. "We might be dead soon," she points out. "Now's the time."

Gendry pauses. He sucks in a breath, his eyes closing for a split second, then steels himself. "I met your sister," he says. "Arya." He turns to look at Rose, but finds that she's stopped in her tracks, staring back at him with wide, bewildered eyes. "We escaped Harrenhal together and headed for the Riverlands. It's why I've been staring." He blushes, gesturing to her face. "You — well, you've got the same cheekbones."

Rose's brow knits together. Her insides have gone warm, no longer feeling the wintry cold. Slowly, she starts walking again. "You protected her?"

Gendry chuckles. "If anything, she protected me."

A bright smile crosses Rose's lips. So much has happened in the space of a few short months, she'd hardly given a thought to seeing her sister again. The little girl who pricked herself with sewing needles, whose dresses were constantly smothered in mud, and the perpetual, innocent frown on her face. Her heart aches with the thought of seeing her, so grown up, all these years later.

"She's in Winterfell, now," Rose whispers. "With our brother and sister."

Gendry nods. "Good." He exhales, half-saddened, half-relieved. "That's all she ever talked about. Making it back to you lot."

Another painful ache fills her chest. All she can do is swallow and nod as the rest of their entourage quicken to walk at their sides. "You still mad at us, boy?" Thoros asks, clutching a hip flask in his hand.

Gendry scowls. "You sold me to a witch," he snaps.

"A priestess," Thoros corrects. "I'll admit, it is a subtle distinction."

"We're fighting a great war," Beric explains. "Wars cost money."

Gendry rips down his hood and snaps his head around to glare, all the softness from his face gone. "I wanted to be one of you," he protests, angrily. "I wanted to join the Brotherhood, but you sold me off. Like a slave. D'you know what she did to me? She strapped me down on a bed, she stripped me naked—"

"Sounds alright so far," the Hound grunts.

"—And put leeches on me," Gendry finishes.

The Hound rolls his eyes. "Was she naked, too?"

Thoros hums under his breath. "She needed your blood."

"Yes," Gendry barks. "Thank you. I know that."

"Could've been worse," the Hound adds.

"She wanted to kill me," Gendry shouts, stopping in the snow. Rose lets out a low groan as everyone else stops around him, eyeing the dark looks on each of their faces. "They would have killed me if it wasn't for Davos—"

"But, they didn't, did they?" the Hound hisses, glaring down at him. "So, what you whinging about?"

Gendry clenches his fists. "I'm not whinging."

The Hound waggles a heavily gloved finger in his face. "Your lips are moving and you're complaining about something. That's whinging." He gestures to Beric. "This one's been killed six times. You don't hear him bitching about it."

Rose lets out a sound, somewhere between a sigh and a growl. "The longer you all stand around bickering, the quicker you'll freeze to death," she snaps. "Keep moving."

Beric nods his head, and compliantly walks past her. The Hound gives her a sharp, irritated glare, but reluctantly follows. _There's a good chance we'll kill each other before the White Walkers can get their hands on us._

* * *

Rose feels a small tap on her arm. She glances around to see Thoros standing next to her, the both of them trailing at the back of the walking party. He holds out his flask. "You look like you need it," he says, with his warm, wry smile.

Gratefully, she takes and swigs it. The wine burns down through her, warming her insides, sweeter than anything she remembers. "I've given a lot of thought to how I might die over the years," she rasps, clearing her throat. "Never imagined it would be at the end of the world, hunting down an enemy I've never seen." She thrusts the flask back into his hands. "The gods truly do have an interesting sense of humour."

Thoros chuckles. "You call it humour. The Lord of Light calls it fate."

"I don't believe in fate."

"You should. Our fates are His one, great gift to us. The knowledge that no matter what we've suffered, or the things we've seen, there is a reason behind all of it." Thoros tilts his head to look at her. There is frost etched in his flaming beard and dusted across his nose. "You've suffered a great deal."

Rose winces. Her head whips around to scowl at him, and he eyes her back, curiously. "If it is true, if he's real, why didn't he stop any of it?" she demands, frustration coursing through her. "The most powerful force in the world couldn't stop the things that I've seen. The things that happened to me should've killed me."

Thoros nods, calmly. "Indeed."

Rose heaves a sigh. Through all the emotions she's felt over the past six years or so, she has rarely felt so exhausted with it all. The exhaustion is quickly simmering into anger; anger for a man, or a god, she's not even sure exists. Swallowing, she tries to calm herself. "He sees a purpose for me."

"There's a purpose for us all," Thoros insists. He continues to watch her, with gentleness in his twinkling eyes. "The Lord of Light won't allow you to rest until it has been fulfilled."

Rose stops, abruptly. He falls to a halt at her side and faces her. "If you looked into the flames and asked him, would he show you?" she asks, quietly. Her cheeks grow warm the moment the question leaves her lips.

Thoros sees this and grins. "You want to know your future." He waits, but she doesn't respond, instead chewing on her lip. Glancing at the group, which are reaching the peak of the slope, he steps closer, eyes penetrating hers. "I think He would show me what we all can see. A woman with great capacity for kindness and mercy. Who could bring peace and prosperity to those who have never known such things. A woman who could be a formidable queen, someday."

Rose shakes her head, frowning. "I'm already a queen."

Thoros peers back at her. A knowing glint flashes in his eyes, which makes her swallow, her head reeling. He gives her a gentle pat on the shoulder. "Not yet," he says with a grin.

It locks her muscles in place — the two short, simple words. Before she can even begin to form a coherent thought, a gruff voice calls from the top of the slope. "Thoros."

He squints in the dusky air. Slowly, he approaches the group, going to stand next to the Hound. Rose watches him walking away, still unable to move. Across from her, Jon glances over his shoulder. When he notices her, rooted to the spot, he gives her an anxious frown.

 _Not yet. Not yet. Not yet._

Failing miserably to shake the words off, Rose returns his frown with a dim smile and heads over to join the group. "That's what I saw in the fire," the Hound is saying, pointing towards the vast, empty whiteness, and the dim curve of the rocks. "A mountain like an arrowhead."

"Are you sure?" Thoros asks.

The Hound turns, his face grim, and nods. "We're getting close."

* * *

The air gets colder and darker, the further the group gets towards the mountain. As they lower from the swarm of rocks into the great, white fields, the wind gets harsher, blowing wet snow into their faces. Rose lifts her arm over her head, trying to shield her eyes from the endless assault, but it makes no difference.

Her entire body aches from walking, her teeth chattering, noisily against the wind's whistle. She can even feel sweat glistening against her skin beneath her wildling furs, but damp frost coating her face and hair.

Ahead of her, Tormund abruptly grabs Jon's arm, and points outwards, into the distance. "Look," he rasps. The party comes to a slow, jerky stop, everyone squinting through the snowstorm, following Tormund's outstretched finger.

A dark shape, large, even from this distance, blackens the white mist. It moves, with alarming rate, through the snowstorm. "A bear," comes the Hound's voice from behind her. "Big fucker."

Booming through the harsh wind, a low, grumbling sound erupts from the shape as it's form becomes clearer in the mist. Rose's heart begins to slam an unsteady rhythm in her chest. "Do bears have blue eyes?" Gendry asks, shakily.

Across from them, the bear's shape rustles. Then, with a low growling sound, it comes hurtling towards them. Fear clawing at her, Rose draws her sword, the sound sharp and jolting her into action. At her sides, the men do the same.

One of the Stark men, who led the front of the procession, comes racing back towards them. Rose sees the terror on his face, plain as anything, eyes wide and wild. Out of nowhere, the great bear leaps into its path and knocks him sideways, with a loud, pained cry.

The distinctive sound of teeth ripping into flesh makes Rose gasp. Jon leaves her side, and sprints through the mist, almost vanishing. Rose and the men follow after him, her entire body quaking. She catches her breath. The snow is stained with blood, his spear half-buried already, the guard nowhere in sight.

Her teeth grit. She clutches onto Redthorn as tightly as she can, lifting it, steeling herself. The party huddles together, their backs pressed to one another, eyes darting through the mist. She can feel Jon's arm brushing against hers. It sends frightened, desperate tears to her eyes.

 _Let me die if I must. But, gods, please, let him go home._

A loud roar erupts from behind her. She whips around long enough to see the bear tearing through them, clutching one of their men in its jaws. It wrestles the man against the snow, blood seeping through him as he lets out a loud, piercing shriek. Something in his back snaps, and he goes still.

The bear lifts its head, eyes blue and piercing, searching for a new victim, but then Jon is leaping forwards. A scream gets stuck in Rose's throat as the bear whips around and straightens onto its hind legs, knocking her brother a good few feet away from him. He lands with a sickening thud.

Quickly, Rose races to his side, her knees burying in the snow. "Jon," she gasps, grabbing at his furs. His face peeks up, startled and dazed, and he clutches onto her. The Hound rushes over to them and helps Rose lift her brother to his feet, staggering with the weight of him.

Behind them, Thoros and Beric set their swords ablaze. The fire searing, wildly in the mist, they run at the bucking bear. Its great paw swipes out and catches one of the men in the face, knocking him to the ground. Its enormous jaw seals around his body, swinging him through the air until a violent crack silences his screams.

He tosses him aside and lets out another blood-curdling roar. Beric takes the opportunity of the brief distraction to crash his fiery sword into its side. It spreads instantly across the beast's body, and it lets out a strange, strangled roar.

In one last effort, it sets its sights on the Hound. He faces the beast, eyes wide at the sight of the erupting flames. With a roar, the bear lurches forward to attack. Thoros leaps between them, raising his sword up, high. The burning bear tackles him to the ground, clasping his blade between his teeth.

Rose watches in horror as Thoros wrestles and cries out on the snow ground. Her instincts kick in. Not thinking, she dashes over to the beast, hearing Jon yelling out her name behind her. She ignores him. Raising her sword, she slams it, as hard as she can, across the bear's back, and slices it through him.

It's not enough. The next thing she knows, the beast's head has whipped around and crashed, hard into her side. She lets out a scream as she topples through the air, spinning around, violently.

The snow ground slams up to meet her, and pain explodes up the side of her head. Stars and black swirls cross her vision, but ahead of her, she can see the bear sinking its teeth into Thoros's chest with an awful, ripping sound. He swings him around, and blood seeps out from his back.

Just as she is about to get back on her feet, Jorah appears out of nowhere and pierces the beast, right in its glittering blue eyes, with a dragonglass dagger. One last, ear-splitting roar erupts from it, before it topples away from Thoros and falls to the ground. The fire crackles, whipping in the wind.

Beric and Gendry grab at Thoros and drag him away, deeper into the mist. Rose tries to pull herself to her feet, but the sudden onset of dizziness sends her crashing back to the snow, with a groan. A dull ache swirls around in her head.

Strong hands grab the back of her wildling jacket and pull her, effortlessly to her feet. She staggers back, into Jon. "Are you alright?" he asks, trying to be heard over the wind. Firmly, he spins her around and puts a warm, gloved hand to her face. When he draws it away, it comes back stained with blood.

She wipes at the gash on her cheek. "Never mind me," she croaks.

Wrenching herself free from his grip, ignoring the pain in her head, she darts across to where Gendry and Beric are crouched down, next to a bleeding Thoros. She falls to her knees next to him, watching as his face grows steadily paler. But, his eyes still twinkle as he looks up at her with a kind smile.

Gendry eases open his jacket and lifts up his shirt, exposing the skin there. Blood seeps out of the long, deep gashes across his chest, each tooth mark as big as Rose's forearm. Her face screws up at the sight of it. "We have to get him back to Eastwatch," Jorah calls.

Thoros stops squirming, shaking his head. "Flask," he pleads.

Beric fumbles around in his coat and yanks out the large, fur-covered flask. He hesitates, still holding his ignited sword in hand. Instead, he passes it to Rose, who rips off the top and, gently, puts it to Thoros's parting lips. She watches with a grimace as he slurps, frantically at the wine, forcing her closer to him.

Finally, he pulls away to draw breath. She seals the flask and slips it back into Beric's pocket, who is looking down at his friend, his face pained beneath his eyepatch. Thoros gazes back at him, his teeth gritting together. "Go on," he whispers.

Rose swallows. She exchanges an apprehensive look with Beric, who gives her a small nod. Silently, she takes Thoros's arm and holds him still. On his other side, Gendry does the same.

Then, Beric lifts his sword and presses it down on Thoros's chest. The skin hisses and fizzles, and Thoros cries out in agony, struggling against her hold on him. The scent of burning flesh fills the air.

Rose gasps. Suddenly, she is back in that torture chamber, with Ramsay pressing an iron rod into her back. Her scars tickle at the memory, but she squeezes her eyes shut, pushing them aside. The sound of burning skin, hissing and spitting, seems to get louder, and her chest constricts.

 _He toys with the steaming rod in his hand, then, his eyes on her face, lightly trails the tip of it down her exposed thigh. It stings like nothing Rose has ever felt before . . . He stalks around her and his hands find the back of her shift. She flinches at the tearing sound as he rips the fabric, easily with his hands . . . "Don't hold back, Lady Rose. I plan on making you scream loud enough for Jon Snow and all his little crows to hear . . ."_

The sound stops. Rose cannot stand the smell any longer. Feeling like her chest is going to collapse, she lets go of Thoros and pushes herself to her feet. She staggers across the snow, her hand frantically massaging her windpipe.

With the attention drawn to Thoros, and her back turned from the group, she allows the tears to slide down her flushing cheeks, sniffling in the cold air. One, fleeting moment of weakness. And she hates herself when she looks up to see the Hound watching her, a knowing grimace on his face.

* * *

The group remains silent as they hike up the mountains. The snow has softened into a gentle drift, the winds calm. Rose keeps her arms wrapped around herself, her hand grazing the hilt of her sword.

Her mind continues to flit between the burning of Thoros's skin and the violent memories of what happened to her in Winterfell. Each time, she tries to force them aside, and each time, frustrated tears spring to her eyes. She blinks them away, refusing to let this show on her face.

Sometimes, she'll catch the Hound watching her from the corner of his eye, or glancing over his shoulder each time she sniffs or her teeth chatter. The look on his face hasn't changed since they left that bear burning in the snow — one of sheer guilt and solemnness.

For a while, she had forgotten just how those scars across his face came to be. The story Littlefinger had told her all those years ago, at the jousting tournament. How the Mountain had pushed the Hound's face into the flames when he was a little boy and held him there while his skin melted.

Rose feels goosebumps prickling at her arms and legs. If any of her brothers had done something so cruel to her, she wouldn't know how to cope. Especially after everything Ramsay had done to her. A new-found admiration for the Hound stirs in her belly as she peers at him, with the wild notion that they're probably more alike than she thought.

Ahead of her, Tormund holds up his hand, signalling for the crew to stop. He tilts his head to listen, and she hears it straight away; the sound of clattering weapons, of sluggish footsteps moving across the snow. Her hand tightens around the hilt of her sword.

Tormund, silently, moves over to the rocks at the slope of the mountain and peers over the edge. With a frown, Rose goes to follow him, but Jon puts a firm hand on her shoulder, stopping her. She scowls at him but remains put as he walks, carefully over to the ledge.

Whatever he sees over the end of it furrows his brow together, and he slumps back, crouching in the snow. "Where's the rest of them?" he rasps.

"If we wait long enough, we'll find out," Tormund grunts.

Jon nods and pushes himself up. He gestures to the crew, and together, they slip back down the slope, back towards the canyon.

* * *

Rose lifts her head. She cannot help herself. A small swarm of the dead fall in line behind the haunting figure at the front — a general, of sorts, with white, frozen wisps for hair, and eyes of the purest blue she has ever seen. He has a long, pointed icicle in his hands, carved and shaped like a sword.

Of all the monsters in all the stories that haunted her as a child, it is nothing compared to seeing them up close. Sucking in a quiet breath, she leans back against the rocks and waits. She soaks up the heavy silence, enjoying the calm while it lasts. Her eyes drift shut for a split second.

When she opens them, Jon is giving the signal. Squaring her shoulders, she leaps out from behind the rocks.

Rose doesn't take the time to study their strange skeleton faces or the vividness in their eyes. Instead, she sprints towards them and raises her sword. It collides with one of theirs. From all angles, the group intercepts the dead. As she slices through the legs of one, she can see Jon advancing on the general, his face hard and determined.

It is nothing like fighting a human. They fling their weapons about wildly, carelessly, with little grace and, seemingly, no particular aim. But, somehow, this makes it more difficult. Unable to anticipate their moves, all she can do is block their blows, Redthorn clanging, noisily amidst the chaos.

She hears a spluttering sound behind her. Kicking away one of the monsters, she spins around to see another has its hand clawing around Ser Jorah's throat. He scratches, feebly at the grip, his face turning red.

Rose leaps forward, sword raised and swings it with all her might. It slices straight through the wight's stomach, splitting him in half, and the two, screeching parts of him collapse to the snow ground. She looks up in time to see Jorah gasping for breath, then a loud, shattering sound erupts from behind them.

Turning, she sees Jon staggering back from the shattered general as the broken pieces of him drop to the ground. In the next second, every wight has imploded, their remains scattering the snow.

Jon spins around, scanning his crew, breathlessly. A look of sheer relief crosses his face when he sees them all, still standing. Rose shakes out her sword hand, looking to Jorah. He is still trying to get the air back into his lungs, but he reaches over and pats her shoulder in a wordless 'thank you'.

It is only then that she notices the lone wight standing amongst the group. It's rotting, skeleton face whips around, trying to find a way out, but they band together, circling it. Rose shudders at the strange, strangled roars escaping him — it sounds like drawing the dull end of a nail across wood.

Tormund tosses his weapon aside. The wight instantly lunges for him, but he lands a hard punch into its jaw, and it falls backwards with a weak cry. The Hound leaps across its body, pinning it there, to the ground.

Rose sheathes her sword as the men hunch over to help hold it still, while Jorah whips out the binding. Without warning, the wight lets out a loud, ear-splitting shriek that echoes through the mountains and rings around in her head.

Grimacing, she throws herself down next to its head and puts her gloved hand over its mouth, stifling his scream. The wight jerks its head out of the way, and the skin of its face tears off, sticking to her gloved hand. With a gagging sound, Rose shakes it off and puts both of her hands back over its mouth for good measure.

She peers up to give Jorah a pointed look, and he begins digging around in his jacket for the hood. Then, he goes still. Rose frowns, wondering why, and then she can feel it. It rumbles the ground beneath her, the sound of a thousand approaching footsteps booming throughout the mountains.

She looks outwards to where her brother is standing, his back to them, gazing out at the horizon. Black shapes, distant, but prominent, are hurtling towards them. Jon whips around, his eyes wide and panicked.

Quickly, Jorah yanks out the hood and Rose steps back, out of the way, while he puts it over the wight's head. As the men finish binding him, she hurries over to Jon, who stares back at her in alarm. Whatever is coming for them terrifies him like nothing she has ever seen.

His focus flits to Gendry. "Run back to Eastwatch," he commands, shakily. "Get a raven to Daenerys. Tell her what's happened."

"I'm not leaving you," Gendry stammers.

"You're the fastest," Jon bellows. "Go, now!"

Rose glimpses the look of terror on Gendry's face. Before she can say anything to assure him, Jon grabs her arm in a tight grip and gives her a yank as he takes off, running towards the mouth of the canyon. She follows after him, her heart slamming with every step, the group tearing after them.

Her throat burns as she continues bolt, not once daring to look back to see if anyone has fallen behind. From the corner of her eye, she can see the Hound carrying the squirming wight over his shoulder, and an injured Thoros being dragged along by two other men.

Suddenly, she slips on the ground, lurching backwards. With a gasp, she manages to steady herself before she falls, but there is a deep, cracking sound from beneath her feet. "Stop!" Jorah roars.

Rose looks down. They are standing on the frozen surface of a lake, and the ice is beginning to splinter beneath their feet. The sound ripples and echoes in the mountains, growing steadily louder. She tries to shuffle, but that only makes it worse. Looking up, she catches sight of her brother's daunted face. But, he is no longer looking at the fracturing ground. Instead, his gaze is cast somewhere over her shoulder.

Rose follows it. What she sees slams the breath out of her body.

The Army of the Dead is such a heaping swarm of darkness, it is difficult to discern their shapes. But, they come hurtling towards them, climbing over one another in their eager effort, like a swarm of black insects. "Go!" Jon bellows.

He grabs Rose again, and tugs her along. Her legs wobble beneath her, but she begins running. At first, she feels too slow, like wading through thick masses of snow. But then, her breath coming out in sharp, cutting gasps, she runs like she's never run before. At some point, Jon's grip on her vanishes, and she is not looking back.

She glances to the side. The dead are circling them from either side of the lake, alarmingly fast. _They're trapping us. Oh, gods, they're going to kill us._ A small, snow-covered mound of rocks lies in the middle of the frozen lake. Rose darts for that, getting there well ahead of the others.

When she bounds up the rocks, she spins back around, drawing her sword as the others join her. The army circles them from all angles, distancing themselves at the rim of the lake in one, gigantic swarm.

Her stomach twists when she notices one of their men has fallen behind, the wights closing in on him. One of them leaps onto his back and sends him crashing to the ice ground with a devastated cry. The glacier cracks and they smash through it, disappearing in an enormous splash of icy water. One by one, the front lining of wights are submerged into the lake, the ice shattering like glass beneath them.

Rose peers around, fighting to catch her breath. Everywhere, the wights come to a slow stop, standing a distance away from them as their comrades vanish into the waters. It seems like the entire world has come to a stop, the only sounds coming from the whipping wind and the panting of the crew. Everything else is silent.

* * *

Night falls. The dead stand still. The group is crowded together on the rocks, waiting in solemn silence. The bound and gagged wight on the ground continues to writhe and make the occasion squalling sound. The air grows steadily colder, and Rose can feel the frost freezing against her face.

She keeps her arms wrapped around herself, and her eyes fixated on the surrounding army. They remain on the edge of the lake, on top of the bordering mountains, eyes piercing blue in the dark mist.

Rose's hand stretches up and grazes against the cut on her cheek. The blood there is congealed, the wound stinging. She cannot even begin to imagine how Thoros is feeling where he sits, a distance away from her, in the snow. She tries to ignore the fact that his skin is turning paler by the second, and he's struggling to keep his eyes open.

She turns to face Jon. He is silent, deep in thought, glaring at the army. His eyes, warm and brown in the mist, dart upwards to meet Rose's. Her teeth are chattering noisily, her entire body trembling. He hesitates, then closes the distance between them, wrapping his arms around her. She closes her eyes, settling into his wildling furs as he rubs, up and down her back with his thick, gloved hands. Instantly, she feels warmer.

Unknowingly, the two siblings share the same thought: if they had to endure the end of the world, there is no one else they'd rather face it with.

* * *

Rose awakens to nothing but cold.

Jon's head is tilted on her shoulder, and the Hound leans against her other side, both of them fast asleep, the latter snoring, softly. Her face is numbed, but when she opens her eyes, she can feel her lashes clumped together with snow. Lifting her gloved hand, she wipes at her face, her fingers painfully cold beneath them.

The movement makes Jon stir. He straightens up against the rocks with a tired, loud shudder. The Hound jerks away from her, his beady, black eyes slowly opening. The rest of the group are huddled together near them, beginning to awaken as the bound wight wriggles a distance away.

With a grumble, the Hound pushes himself to his feet. He stomps over and gives the wight a hard kick to the stomach. It squawks in response, renewing its struggles. For a moment, Rose wonders why it is so loud. Then, she looks up and realises the army are echoing the noise, rustling in agitation.

Unnerved, she stands up, staggering from the exhaustion. She offers both of her hands to Jon, who takes them, and she hauls him up, too. His arms automatically wrap around himself, still trembling against the cold. Slowly, the rest of the crew get to their feet, eyeing the dead encircling them.

Except one.

Beric crouches down at his side and gives him a shake. "Thoros?" he calls, softly. There is no response. Thoros's eyes, covered in frost, gaze upwards towards the sky, unseeing, his lips cracked and parted. "Thoros."

Rose swallows back the lump in her throat. The Hound crosses over to the corpse of the red priest, his brow furrowed. He looks almost pained, and that same guilt flashes in his eyes. Pressing his lips together, Beric lifts the hem of his shawl and covers it over Thoros's face, shielding those dead, frightening eyes. He looks as though he's struggling not to cry.

The Hound crouches down next to him. "They say it's one of the better ways to go," he mumbles. Any hint of disdain from his voice is gone, replaced with a softness Rose hasn't heard before. Beric says nothing, staring, emptily down at the body.

The Hound rummages around in the pocket of Thoros's jacket and draws out the flask. He straightens up, rips off the lid with his teeth, and spits it on the ground before taking a large swig.

Beric grimaces and folds Thoros's hands across his chest. "Lord of Light, show us the way," he murmurs, softly. "Come to us in our darkness and lead your servant into the light."

Without warning, Jon snatches the flask from the Hound's grasp. He scowls down at him, half-baffled, half-irritated. "We have to burn his body," he explains, grimly. He glances at Beric, as though asking silent permission. He tips the remaining wine over Thoros's corpse and tosses the empty flask aside.

"We'll all be close behind him," Tormund grumbles. "Unless the Lord of Light is kind enough to send us a bit of fire."

Beric peers at him. His face setting, he draws his sword and positions it in front of him. His gloved hand swipes up the blade, and it ignites into roaring, searing fire. Rose arches an eyebrow, suppressing a grin as he casts Tormund a smug, sideways glance.

Then, he is pressing the blade onto Thoros's body.

Rose hums in revulsion as the scent of burning flesh fills the air. Quickly, she whips around and stalks off in the opposite direction, refusing to let herself get lost in her traumatic memories again. "Lord of Light," she can hear Beric murmuring. "Come to us in our darkness. For the night is dark and full of terrors."

Instead, she focuses on the monsters surrounding them, breathing steadily to keep her chest from constricting. Not a single one has moved a fraction since she fell asleep, rooted to their spots like statues. _What are they waiting for?_

She can hear footsteps in the snow approaching her side. Glancing around, she sees Jon coming to a stop at her side. He casts her a weary look, and she turns to see Jorah approaching, his receding, blonde hair coated in frost.

"We'll all freeze soon," he whispers. "I saw the water." He shivers, looking to Jon. "When you killed the white walker, almost all the dead that followed it fell. Why?"

Jon shrugs. "Maybe he was the one who turned them."

Jorah purses his lips, and nods. "We can go for the walkers," he suggests. "Maybe we'll stand a chance."

"No." Jon peers over his shoulder at their captured wight, still struggling on the ground. "We need to take that thing back with us. There's a raven flying for Dragonstone now. Daenerys is our only chance."

"No," Beric calls, softly. He crosses over to them, squinting outwards into the distance, near the bordering mountains. "There's another." He points with his sword, upwards. "Kill him. He turned them all."

Rose frowns. Her heart misses a beat as she follows the tip of his sword into a concave in the mountains. She can't understand how she hadn't spotted him before — sitting on his horse at the front of a small procession, a shade of wintry blue beneath his black armour, an iced spear in his hand. The remaining crew gathers at the front of the mound to gape at him.

The Night King.

"Too bad no one thought to bring a bow and arrow," she mumbles.

Jon grimaces. "You don't understand."

"The Lord brought you back," Beric says. "He brought me back. No one else, just us. Did he do it to watch us freeze to death?"

"Careful, Beric," the Hound sneers. "You lost your priest. This is your last life."

"I've been waiting for the end for a long time." Beric's face hardens as his eyes lock with the Night King from where he sits, far up on the sloping rocks. "Maybe the Lord brought me here to find it."

The Hound frowns. "Every Lord I've ever met has been a cunt," he snaps. "Can't see why the Lord of Light should be any different."

* * *

The minutes tick into hours. The world remains still and silent, with only the whistling wind echoing in her ears. Rose stays seated in the snow, tracing patterns on the surface with her finger.

Never before has she felt such a horrid mixture of anxiety and boredom. Half of her longs for the dead to get it over with. Waiting for death is certainly worse than experiencing it. But the other half of her is searching the skies for any signs of dragons overhead. She glances over at Jon to see him doing the exact same.

Ahead of her, the Hound picks up a stone from the ground. Drawing his arm back, he swings it at the lining of wights with impressive force. It tears through the air and strikes one, directly in its face, dislodging its skeleton jaw with a clatter. "Dumb cunt," the Hound grumbles.

Rose would laugh if she wasn't so exhausted.

The Hound crouches down and picks up a second stone. She watches with mild amusement as he launches it across the lake. Her smile dims when it clatters to the frozen ground and skids across to meet the wight at its feet. Her heart plummets as she realises — they had merely been waiting for the fractured ice to glaze over, for it to be strong enough to cross again. And the stone merely scratches it.

The wight looks down at the ground. It looks back up at them.

"Oh, fuck," the Hound groans.

Rose straightens to her feet when the wight begins walking across the lake, dragging its sword along the surface. It walks at a slow, trudging pace. Nevertheless, her hand closes around the hilt of Redthorn.

She draws it when more wights emerge from their huddle, heading towards them from all different directions, with painful slowness. Somewhere near her, she feels the warmth of Beric's sword as it bursts into flames again.

Swallowing, Rose looks once more to her brother. Jon gazes back at her, his sword clutched in both of his hands, his face pained. _We never should have come here._

The Hound grimaces. "Fuck it." He leaps forwards and swings his hammer, crashing it against the wight approaching him. It splits in two and clatters to the lake with a loud, strangled squawk.

Rose chews on her bottom lip when she sees a few approaching her. The first darts forward, and she raises her sword to meet it, but Jon gets there first. Elbowing her out of the way, knocking the breath out of her, he slices Longclaw across its stomach.

She manages to recover in time to shove her blade straight through the mouth of another. And another, and another, until it becomes much harder. The blood roars in Rose's ears as more and more of them advance. They fall under the slashes of her Valyrian sword, but she staggers with the mass of her own wildling furs. Heat radiates at her side each time Beric sets a new one alight.

Looking up, she sees the horizon becoming steadily whiter as the wights vanish from it, heading for them instead. Never has the certainty of death had such a weight to it. More and more of them come at her. With a screech, she slams her sword through their sides, into their heads, kicking them away from her when they fall. The chaos becomes overwhelming.

A gasp from Jon makes her turn. Rose spots one of the wights leaping onto him from behind. Agony coursing through her, she slams her sword through its neck, and it falls to the ground, decapitated. She fleetingly scans a disconcerted Jon for signs of hurt, but barely has time before another wight has set its sights on her.

Her muscles ache as she continues to slash away at them. The world becomes a painful, violent blur before her eyes, everything inside of her burning. She lets out a dry sob when she spots another one of their men being submerged by a horde of wights, hearing his agonised screams, but she keeps going.

"Fall back!" Jon bellows from behind her. "Fall back!"

"Come on!" Tormund roars.

Rose screeches when several wights come at him at once, slamming their weapons into his head. She goes after him, but something grips her ankle, tearing her back. With a scream, she falls, flat on her stomach, her head smacking against the rocks. Agony bursts across her skull and the wetness of blood pours down her face, getting into her eye.

She struggles at whatever is holding her, shrieking at the top of her lungs. Whatever it is whips her around onto her back. She glances down, renewing her struggles when she spots two wights clawing at her legs, tearing the fabric in an effort to tug her down. "Jon!" she half-screams, half-sobs, kicking out in all different directions. "Jon! No, no! Help me!"

Something slams into the wights below, knocking them backwards — a hammer. Hands grab her arms and yank her upwards. Her legs barely carry her weight anymore, but the grip on her is tight, holding her up. "You're alright. You're alright." It's not Jon.

She spins and clutches onto him. The Hound stares down at her with wide, unhinged eyes, but the sound of screaming from behind them distracts her from the shock of it all. "Tormund," she gasps.

Releasing her, he lurches over to where he is being dragged into the waters, wights covering his body. Rose staggers the moment his grip disappears. The pain in her head makes it difficult to think, the blood on her hands making her extremely dizzy. But, she pushes through it when she sees more of them charging at her. _Come on, Queen in the North. You can do this._

Gritting her teeth, she raises her sword and swings again.

Slowly, striking down wight after wight, she backs into the huddle the crew has formed, and Jorah's hands find her shoulder. She stands in front of him when another wight jabs its spear in his direction and blocks the blow with Redthorn. Further and further up the mound they are pushed.

On and on it goes. Even as she fights, Rose can feel death creeping up on them. A bitter murky air that makes it difficult to concentrate. She hears the sound of men toppling into the pit of wights beneath them, vanishing as their limbs are torn. The pain in her head has dulled into a raw ache, burning with each swing of her sword and movement of her body.

 _I'll do this until my muscles are worn. I'll do this until my bones are broken if I must—_

An ear-splitting roar erupts from the sky. Rose feels the relief slamming into her as she ducks down, the dragon soaring overheard, spewing a gushing fountain of searing fire. The snow ground hits her knees. She looks up to see Drogon's fiery breath cutting through the wights below. As the fire dims, two other dragons come into view — Viserion and Rhaegal circle in the snowdrift, spewing fire in all different directions.

Rose is momentarily mesmerised. She watches as the lake collapses and the wights either burn from the fires or disappear into the waters. The heat from the flames scorches her skin, making the gash on her face sting like her head is about to split open, but she pushes it back.

She searches the sky. Daenerys is there, sitting on top of Drogon, looking down at the crew with an expression too far away to discern. Another mesmerising sight. Finally, she lands on the ground, Drogon blowing fire at the wights that come hurtling towards him.

He scuttles along the ground towards them, like an enormous lizard. Daenerys leans over and outstretches her hand. Jon hurries over and goes to take it. Then, he pulls away. He whips around and grabs Rose by the scruff of her wildling furs, pulling her forwards. "You have to go!" he shouts, trying to be heard over the dragon-fire.

He shoves her towards the beast and sidesteps past her. Rose watches in horror as he fights off the wights that come bolting at them. She casts a wild look to Daenerys, who is watching the scene unfold with an equal look of horror. Finally, their eyes meet. Steeling herself, she outstretches her hand.

Rose swallows and takes it. She can feel Beric's hands on her waist, hoisting her upwards as Daenerys pulls her onto the dragon's back. She grips onto one of the large, tooth-like scales covering its back and watches the rest of the crew climb up.

Frantically, she looks out to where her brother is clashing blades with several swarming wights, hurtling at him like arrows from a bow. "Jon!" she screeches. He ignores her, moving further and further away from the dragon, into the pit of corpses.

The Hound slams their captured wight into the Drogon's pointed scales, as the rest of the crew mounts his back. Rose watches them get settled, then looks, desperately to Jon. He keeps fighting, dodging the dragon fire and the splits in the lake. "We have to help him!" she shrieks.

Her hand closes around the hilt of her sword. Before she can leap from the dragon, a strange whistling sound sails through the sky. There's the unmistakable sound of ice piercing into flesh. Rose's head whips around, and she sees Viserion, hears his roar of agony. Blood and fire spew from the wound in his neck — the Night King's spear is lodged straight through it.

He hurtles towards the ground, his strange scream setting the hairs on Rose's arms on end. Beneath her, Drogon lets out the same, devastated noise, and she feels the deep rumble against her legs. From somewhere in the sky, Rhaegal echoes, as their brother plummets, a mess of fire and blood, into the lake.

He skids across it, the impact of his enormous body shaking the ground, the ice shattering beneath him. The waves turn crimson with blood, and he disappears beneath them. Rose catches a glimpse of his gleaming, green eyes as they drift shut. Then, he is sinking below the waves, out of sight.

The world stills. Rose sneaks a glance at Daenerys and her heart breaks. She trembles beneath the furs she has donned, staring at the blood-stained waves, eyes brimming with tears, her face rigid. A mother having lost her child. Beneath them, Drogon lets out another scream.

"Go!" comes Jon's voice. "Go! Now! Leave!"

Rose's head snaps around. He is racing back towards them, his sword raised, batting at the wights that launch themselves at him. Two clash into him from the side and she can do nothing but watch as her brother is pushed into the water, buried beneath a mass of wights.

"No!" Rose screeches.

Her body reacts faster than her reeling mind. The world around her begins to spin, a vast, hollow roar screaming in her ears. _He's not dead. He cannot be dead. There is no way that my brother is dead._ Arms are sealing around her from behind, holding her, fast. Tormund is shouting something in her ear — "There's nothing you can do!" — but she struggles against him, scratching and clawing and kicking.

"Let me go!" she screams. "Let me go!"

"Shut up!" Tormund bellows. He grabs her hands as her body begins to shake with violent sobs, forcing them around the dragon scales. "Hold on! Hold on!"

Drogon moves beneath them. He leaps from the mound, his wings giving an enormous flap, sending Rose jerking forwards against him. She tightens her grip, her face screwing up as the salt of her tears sting her bloodied face. _Don't look down. Don't look down. Oh, gods, Jon—_

When she opens her eyes, they are soaring into the air, and she clings onto the scales as hard as she can. Another whistling sound races towards them. Drogon quickly glides to the side, and the spear whips past them. Rose hears a shout from behind her. Looking over her shoulder, she spots Jorah hanging from the end of the dragon, the Hound clasping onto him, hauling him back up.

Further into the sky they go. Rose stares down at the spread of wights swarmed around the broken lake. A sight that shreds through her chest and leaves a wide, gaping hole, which sears when another thick sob escapes her.

 _He's gone. He's really gone._

* * *

Daenerys waits on the battlements, watching her dragons circle the surrounding mountains. The wind has softened into a gentle whistle, the air oddly warm. From behind her, Jorah approaches, cleaned of the dirt and blood from the expedition. "It's time to go, Your Grace," he rasps.

She shakes her head. "A bit longer," she whispers, sounding broken. Jorah gives her a solemn nod, understanding. He looks as though he wants to hold her, but keeps his hands, firmly in his pockets to refrain from doing so. Instead, he turns on his heel and heads back inside.

Daenerys stands there, rooted to the spot. Her head turns when she hears a sniffling coming from behind her. Her muscles clench together at what she sees.

Rose is rid of her dirtied wildling furs, dressed in her usual breeches and breastplate. She has a long gash running from her hairline to her temple, which is surrounded by a purplish bruise, and another across her cheek. Her eyes are red, her hair a tattered braid, her skin ghostly pale. The hollow expression on her face matches her own — the look of someone who has just lost everything that matters. Someone who has just walked through hell.

"Are you alright?" Daenerys asks, softly.

Rose's eyes refuse to meet hers. Slowly, she steps onto the battlements and heads over to the parapet. Still, not looking at her. "I'm thankful you came to our aid," she croaks.

Daenerys purses her lips. "I'm sorry that it wasn't enough."

Rose's lip twitches. She is silent for a long while, staring down at the frozen wasteland, at the small lining of trees separating it from the mountains. The painful ache in her chest makes it difficult to hold back the surfacing tears. "We never should have left the North," she whispers, trembling. "My husband warned me what would happen if we did. We should've stayed where we belonged."

"But, then you would have no dragonglass."

"What was the cost? The North has lost their King."

Daenerys frowns. "They still have their Queen."

Rose pauses. She angles herself to face her, a blazing look in her ocean blue eyes. "Is that what you'd have me do?" she demands, her voice shaking, but firm. "Be their Queen?"

Daenerys gazes back at her with softness. For a split second, she stiffens and faintly shakes her head. A dense silence hangs in the air. The two women stare at one another. The longer their eyes search, the more they fill with exhausted, defeated tears. "Do you desire to show the world how easily a queen can be overturned?" Rose asks. Her chin quivers. "You ask of me something I'm not capable of. To surrender. I won't do it."

"You came all this way to challenge my reign?"

"I came for what my kingdom needs."

Daenerys closes the distance between them, her violet eyes pleading, a single tear slipping down her cheek. "If you refuse your rightful ruler, say it to her face," she implores.

Rose tries and fails to swallow back her resentment. "You've seen the Night King. He killed one of your dragons." A pang of guilt slaps into her when Daenerys flinches from her words. A fresh wave of tears flood, relentlessly down her cheeks. "Now, he's taken another brother from me. He will continue to take until the world has blackened and there is nothing left. Bending the knee won't change that."

Daenerys's eyes drift shut. She opens them, and looks upwards at the sky, at her remaining two dragons. A sound, half a sob, half a sigh escapes her. "The world has cast me aside for too long."

Rose nods, tiredly. "It's what the world does to women like us."

"Then, kneel," Daenerys pleads. She closes the distance between them, her violet eyes burning into hers. "You will not just be my subject; you will be my ally. Together, we can conquer those who seek to destroy us. Do not play into Cersei's hands. Our feud is what she hopes for. To fight one another while she plots to murder us both."

Rose wipes, angrily at her face. "The North kneels to no one but a Stark," she protests. Her fists clench at her sides. "I don't wish for a feud—"

"You wish for a rebellion," Daenerys interrupts, fuming. "To resist me."

"To resist anyone who tries to take what is rightfully mine," Rose snaps.

A hollow laugh erupts from Daenerys, all softness vanished. "What about your brother? Did he not take what is rightfully yours?"

 _Her brother. Her dead brother._ Rose flinches. Her palm itches with the urge to slap the viciousness from Daenerys's face, but she settles for fixing her with a stone-cold glare. "You refuse to bow to me, yet you share your Northern crown with a bastard born in the south," she continues, flatly. She takes a few more steps towards her, fire in her violet eyes. "Power is not something to be divided. It is to be taken. Westeros only has one queen. She stands in front of you."

Rose blinks, staring at her. A small, pained smile crosses her lips. "It's what Littlefinger hasn't quite worked out," she muses. "He's tried to pull me into a game I never wanted to play. A game of power, of kings and queens, and endless, bloody wars." She bites down on her lip, going numb. "I never wanted a crown. Not truly. All I wanted was my family and a place that we could call home. I was beaten, and raped, and tortured to find it, but I did. It won't be taken from me again."

Daenerys looks mildly startled. Beneath the tears clouded in her eyes, there is a dark, furious flicker. It unsettles Rose, but she keeps her chin lifted, her teeth gritted. After a moment of searching her face, Daenerys turns away, looking out at the horizon. Her hands curl around the parapet, turning her knuckles white.

Rose wipes her face. "So, what now?"

"The dead are coming," Daenerys mutters. "They'll be defeated."

"And, then you'll have me killed?"

She winces. "I don't want to."

"But, you will," Rose cries. It feels as though the world is crumbling beneath her feet; the world she built. "We'll fight over the North until it destroys us both. Or, perhaps you'll burn it to the ground."

Daenerys whips around. "I am not my father."

"And, make no mistake, I am not mine," Rose growls, trembling with a deep, inhuman rage.

Daenerys steps back, calming herself. She swallows. "You have nothing to fear from me while the Night King lives," she insists, coolly. "Unless you should side with my enemies."

Rose's muscles lock in place. "If I side with your enemies, it's only because you've driven me to do so," she hisses. Not giving her the space to compose herself, she steps forward, looking right at her beautiful, seething face. "I'm Rose Stark of Winterfell," she snarls. "You murder me, and you murder a queen."

A horn resounds below. Voices shout. The anger inside of Rose seeps into such an overwhelming sense of relief as she peers over the battlements, her legs go weak. Emerging from the darkness of the forest, jerking about on horseback, is the figure of her brother, hunched over, eyes shut. _I knew it. Gods, I knew it._

Not once looking back, she sprints from the battlements and heads back inside the fortress.

* * *

Rose walks into the cabin, carrying a heap of spare blankets in her arms. She falters in the doorway at the sight before her — Jon is lying, still against the covers, his scarred chest bare. Daenerys sits on the chair next to him, her eyes glistening with tears. Their hands are entwined together on the wolf pelts, gazing at one another with small, warm smiles.

Their heads whip around when Rose sucks in a sharp breath. She stares back at them, feeling a mix of guilt for interrupting such a private moment, and hostility as Daenerys's face hardens. She tugs her hand away from Jon. Casting him one last, adoring look, she circles the bed and sweeps past Rose, heading out of the room.

Rose watches her leave, clenching onto the blankets tighter. When she turns back around, Jon is staring at her. He gives her a tiny smile that creases his eyes and twitches at his lips; for a split second, he looks like the boy she grew up with. Her brother. The brother she almost lost.

With a groan, he tries to prop himself up. "Don't," Rose croaks. She sets the blankets down on the side of the bed and hurries over to him, her throat burning. "You need to rest."

"And, you need a hug," he counters, his voice raw. Rose's chin begins to quiver. Succumbing to the flood of weakness that surges through her, she timidly sits down at his bedside.

Jon straightens himself into a sitting position, and with a furrowed brow, tugs her into his arms. Rose wraps hers around his shoulders, careful, so as not to cause him further injury. Her eyes squeeze shut, pushing back the tears. His skin is strangely hot, as though he might be getting a temperature. "I thought you were dead," she whimpers into his shoulder.

"I'm not."

"Yes, I know that, you idiot," Rose mumbles.

Jon chuckles, the sound scratchy, but his arm tightens around her when she starts to sniffle. Gently, she pushes herself away from him. She doesn't look into the warmth of his brown eyes, knowing that would break her. Instead, she stares down at the wolf pelts.

"I wish you weren't always so brave," she whispers, wiping her nose on her sleeve. "Sometimes, I wish you were a coward."

He grins, again. It looks like it pains him to do. "You and me both." A thought flashes in his eyes. He glances at the door, where Daenerys had vanished through moments ago. His jaw clenches a little as he gazes back at his sister. "There's something I need to tell you."

Whatever it is, it seems to pain him even more.

* * *

 **A/N:** Sorry for the chapter delay! Blame the 12-hour shift I suffered through yesterday. However, I quite like having a break between the penultimate episode/finale and all the others.

Anyway, Jon just single-handedly gave the North, his crown, and Rose's to Daenerys . . . after that WHOLE hostile discussion between the two queens on the battlements! Typical. How will Rose react to the news? And how will she cope with facing Cersei again after all these years?


	67. The Dragon and the Wolf

**The Dragon and the Wolf**

"Sometimes when I try to understand a person's motives, I play a little game. I assume the worst. What's the worst reason they could possibly have for saying what they say and doing what they do? Then I ask myself, 'How well does that reason explain what they say and what they do?"

* * *

Rose revels in the feeling of the warm winds blowing strands of hair across her face. The heat of the sun should make her feel calmer, but the surge of the waves beneath her and the vision of King's Landing looming over the waters, coming towards them, turns her rigid.

"How many people live there?" Jon asks.

Tyrion grimaces, bleakly at the Red Keep. "A million, give or take."

Rose frowns. "Last I heard, it was half a million."

"The Riverlands are burned and winter is here." Tyrion squirms at her side as the boat gives a sudden, rocky jolt. "Hundreds of thousands will have migrated to the capital by now."

"That's more people than the entire North," Jon mutters. "Crammed into that. Why would anyone want to live that way?"

"There's more in the city," Tyrion replies. "And the brothels are far superior," he adds, glancing at them over his shoulder with a lifted brow. A smile twitches the corners of Rose's lips. He manages a small grin, then steps away from the bow, heading back to the deck.

Rose squints in the sunlight. Her teeth grit when she feels Jon's eyes flitting to her, troubled. "Still not talking to me?" he asks. Squaring her shoulders, she moves towards the steps, but he grabs her arm. Her head whips around to glare at him. "I understand you're angry, but you're the one who taught me the importance of being a united front," he tells her, exasperated. "Can you at least pretend you don't hate me in front of Cersei?"

His face is so sincere, a sharp pain stabs at her chest. _But, you gave away my crown. You did it all behind my back. You betrayed me._ Swallowing, she stares down at his hand clasping her arm and shrugs out of his grip. Without a word, she turns and storms down the steps. Jon can do nothing but sigh after her.

On the deck, Theon stands near Varys, having watched the quiet scene with a frown on his face. It morphs into a soft smile when she approaches him. Rose stands at his side, gazing out towards King's Landing and the looming Red Keep. Her insides flutter when his hand brushes against hers, entwining their fingers.

* * *

The main road is a stream of pure dust, lined neatly with trees. Jon and Rose walk at the front of the procession, a horde of Dothraki surrounding them on either side. The Hound saunters at the rear of the group, lugging a donkey cart with him, which carries the padlocked crate in which their imprisoned wight resides in.

As a layer of sweat begins to gleam on her brow, Rose is glad she traded in her furs for a fitted leather waistcoat embroidered with the direwolf sigil. Tiny winter roses are woven into her golden hair, which is pulled backwards in an elaborate, braided knot. Her hand remains locked around the hilt of her sword, eyeing the area for wildfire or other Cersei-like traps.

"Why did they build it?" Missandei asks from behind her.

Rose follows her gaze to the fractured stone walls of the Dragonpit, which peek upwards from behind the treeline. "Dragons don't understand the difference between what is theirs and what isn't," Jorah explains. Rose bites her lip, suppressing the urge to snidely comment: 'like their mother'. "Land, livestock. Children. Letting them roam free around the city was a problem."

"I imagine it was a sad joke at the end," Tyrion muses. "An entire arena for a few sickly creatures, smaller than dogs. But in the beginning, when it was home to Balerion the Dread . . . it must have been the most dangerous place in the world."

Davos squirms, staring straight ahead of them. "Maybe it still is."

Rose sucks in a breath when they reach the bend of the road. A company of Lannister soldiers, dressed in their scarlets and golds, come around the corner. At the front of the procession, she's surprised to see Bronn, dressed smarter than she'd ever seen him. He looks like a lord.

Her eyes blow wide when she spots Brienne and Podrick standing amongst them. Instantly, their eyes lock, and Brienne has the good sense to look ashamed. Rose grits her teeth, but says nothing.

"Welcome, my lords," Bronn greets. He eyes the Dothraki flanking the group but remains at ease. "Your friends arrived before you did," he says, gesturing to Brienne and Podrick. "I've been sent to escort you all to the meeting."

He steps aside, extending his arm. Compliantly, the Lannister soldiers part, forming a narrow walkway for the procession. The Dothraki are the first to move, clutching their spears, surly looks on their faces. Rose keeps her eyes fixated on Brienne, and quickly moves into the group to walk at her side.

"You shouldn't be here," she hisses.

Brienne swallows. "Sansa sent me to represent her interests."

"And now my sisters and my brother are in Winterfell, unprotected," Rose counters, her hand clenching, tighter around her sword. "You swore an oath. Your being here is breaking that oath."

"Sansa declined your invitation to King's Landing so she could do as she promised," Brienne protests, struggling to keep her voice even. "To stay in Winterfell and rule in your stead. She's doing a marvellous job." Rose sighs, exasperated, but nods her head, a flicker of pride warming her insides. Brienne visibly relaxes. "I know the South. I know the Lannisters. I provide an extra sword to your service, should you need it."

Rose looks down at the dirt road, wincing. "What about Littlefinger?"

Brienne stiffens. "He's been advising her."

Rose lets out another sigh. She lifts her chin, training her gaze on the looming Dragonpit. "You left her alone with him," she accuses. The hurt that flashes across Brienne's face makes her feel so small, that she adds, " _I_ left her alone with him."

"It was a difficult decision, Your Grace," Brienne insists.

Rose feels her palms beginning to sweat. "Should Jon and I die here, the North will be left in her hands," she murmurs. "I'd feel much better about that if I knew my husband wouldn't be whispering in her ear." She sucks in a deep, bracing breath. "If it comes to a fight, don't risk yourself defending me. Go back to the North and keep her safe."

Brienne blinks, alarmed. "Your Grace—"

"That's an order," Rose interrupts.

She tilts her head to give her a firm look which makes Brienne swallow. After a moment's thought, she nods her head but winces as though she hates herself for doing so. She slows her pace until she has fallen back, walking near the Hound, who is still dragging along the cart.

* * *

The Dragonpit is a large coliseum in tatters. The vast stone walls are broken, the sun and the sky acting as a ceiling, debris scattered around the edges. For Rose, it feels like walking straight through history: all the stories she heard about dragons when she was a child. It is equal parts fascinating and terrifying.

Lannister soldiers are stationed here and there, scattered around the podium. A series of chairs, separated into three distinctive groups, seat on top of it, shaded from the sun's glare with a crimson pergola. Despite her anger, Rose finds herself inching towards Jon, who casts her a warm, but knowing look. She avoids it, swallowing her pride.

Then, she feels a hand brushing against hers. Theon has quickened to her side, looking painfully handsome in his Ironborn armour, with a heaviness to his eyes. She understands instantly, and it aches — Bronn gestures them in separate directions as they climb the steps to the podium.

Her hand closes around Theon's. She can do nothing but give it a small squeeze. He takes a moment to study her and then, with a nod, Theon lets her go and follows Jorah, Varys, and Missandei to the far left of the podium. Rose heads for the right, where four chairs are stationed.

No one sits down. The Dothraki have swarmed to the left side of the podium, leaving Rose feeling oddly vulnerable as only she, Jon, Podrick, and Brienne remain. This quells when the Hound crosses over to them, avoiding her gaze.

"Come on, Pod," Bronn calls, patting him on the shoulder. "Let's you and me go have a drink while the fancy folks talk, eh?"

Podrick glances at Brienne. She gives him an encouraging nod, which he returns before the two of them saunter off. Rose watches them disappear into the darkness of a side entrance, half-wishing she could follow them.

The Dragonpit falls into a rigid silence. The Lannister men surrounding the podium remain in a strict formation close to the entrances, their faces giving nothing away. Eyes flit between the groups. Rose finds herself looking across at where Theon stands. Like her, he has his hand closed around the hilt of his sword, his brow furrowed.

Rose counts the seconds in her head. The seconds turn into minutes, and she sighs with irritation. Until the clanging of armour and marching footsteps makes her turn. The first person she sees is the Mountain — he is enormous, bigger than she remembered, every inch of him coated in thick armour.

Standing behind him is Cersei. Rose has to catch her breath. Her golden hair is cropped over her ears, and she no longer wears the pretty silk dresses she remembers so clearly. Instead, she is cloaked in black, with fur and metalwork on her dress.

And Jaime — his hair, the colour of beaten gold, is shorter than she remembers, too. His golden, metal hand peeks out from underneath his sleeve, catching the sunlight. Standing near him is a man she doesn't recognise, but from the sneer on his face, she knows this is Euron Greyjoy.

Mustering her courage, Rose walks over to her chair and stands in front of it, waiting. She spots the disconcerted look on Jon's face, as he struggles to look at ease. Cersei brushes straight past them, not even glancing in their direction, heading for her ornate seat, which is positioned beneath the Lannister banners.

Jaime follows her, and Euron behind him. Rose grits her teeth when she notices him sneering at Theon, smugness written all over his face. Not trusting herself, she removes her hand from her sword and clasps both of them in front of her.

Finally, the gathered lords and ladies sink into their seats, and she does, too, hers positioned right between Jon and Davos. The Hound steps away from his post next to Brienne and crosses the podium towards the Mountain, who steps in front of Cersei, towering well above him. Rose wishes she were close enough to hear the quiet exchange but settles for finding the most comfortable position in her seat.

After what feels like an age, the Hound turns his back on his brother, who steps back into position, and stalks off the podium, towards the slender lining of steps.

"Where is she?" Cersei asks, coldly.

Tyrion's gaze remains trained on the ground. "She'll be here soon."

She wrings her hands. "Didn't travel with you?"

"No."

Cersei rolls her eyes, her jaw clenching. The brief, cold exchange sends goosebumps prickling over Rose's arms, in spite of the stifling heat. She bites down on her lip, chewing anxiously. Waiting, and waiting, and waiting—

A distant, thunderous roar erupts from the sky, followed by the flap of beating wings. Jaime is the first to leap up from his seat, clutching his sword as he staggers out from the pergola. The sound flutters the fabric, noisily above them. With a small sigh, Rose also rises to her feet, squinting in the sunlight as she searches the skies.

The enormous dark shadows cross over the stone walls, and soon, everyone is on their feet, stepping further out, onto the podium to watch. Cersei, however, remains rigidly seated. Rose glimpses her swallowing, and cannot help the grin that crosses her lips.

Drogon and Rhaegal come into view, circling the clouded sky. Rose can see the flash of silver hair before she comes into view — Daenerys guides Drogon down onto the lip of the Dragonpit, his claws crushing the fractured stones.

The Lannister soldiers surrounding the entrance near him scatter, perturbed looks on their faces, as Drogon lets out an ear-splitting roar. His head lowers a little, revealing his mother seated, calmly on his back. A beat of his wings sends the dust billowing up in clouds around them. The stones continue to crumble beneath his weight as he clambers down the stands towards the ground.

In steady, smooth movements, Daenerys slips from the dragon's back and climbs, with odd calm, down its wing. As she crosses over to the gathering, Drogon soars back into the air, sending the dust billowing again. The two dragons swirl in the sky, rising higher and higher, keeping themselves in plain sight.

Rose bites down, hard on her lip, as Daenerys climbs the steps to the procession. It takes her a while to realise what this must mean to her; to be in a place steeped in the history of her ancestors. Another reason she has a better claim to the throne than Cersei.

 _But not my throne. Not my crown._

Forcing the thought aside, Rose takes her seat. The procession — the most powerful gathering of people in the world — follows suit, most of which daunted into silence. Daenerys's eyes flit to Cersei, locking their gazes.

"We've been here for some time," Cersei spits.

"My apologies," Daenerys replies, softly.

Cersei stares back at her, her hands clenched together in her lap. For a short while, no one dares to speak. Then, Daenerys gives Tyrion a small nod, and he gets to his feet, crossing to the centre of the podium. "We are all facing a unique—"

"Theon," Euron calls. All heads whip to where he sits, next to Cersei, his sneer still intact. "I have your sister. If you don't submit to me here now, I'll kill her."

A lump forms in Rose's throat. She looks across at where he sits, and her heart breaks at the anguished expression on his face. For the briefest of moments, Theon meets her gaze, then drops it to the floor. He looks ashamed.

"I think we ought to begin with larger concerns," Tyrion murmurs.

"Then, why are you talking?" Euron asks. He rises from his seat and saunters over to face him, eyes gleaming. "You're the smallest concern here."

Tyrion frowns, bemused. He turns to Theon. "Do you remember when we discussed dwarf jokes?"

"His wasn't even good," Theon snarls.

"He explained it at the end. Never explain. It always ruins it."

Euron's face sets as he gazes down at him. "We don't even let your kind live in the Iron Islands, you know," he murmurs. He leans closer to him, venom gleaming in his eyes. "We kill you at birth. An act of mercy for the parents."

"Perhaps you ought to sit down," Jaime barks.

Euron doesn't look around. "Why?"

"Sit down, or leave," Cersei commands.

The Mountain plods forward from his post, his body swaying awkwardly with his own, heaving weight. At the sound of his rumbling footsteps, Euron turns, and his smile wavers. His eyes dart around the gathering, and with a raspy chuckle, heads back to his seat.

Theon looks, directly at Rose, then. She lets her lips twitch up into what she hopes is a gentle smile, and his face visibly softens.

Tyrion takes a few bold steps forward. "We are a group of people who do not like one another, as this recent demonstration has shown," he begins, tersely.

Instinctively, Rose's eyes flit to Daenerys. She's surprised to see her staring back, and her face hardens. At her side, she feels Jon stiffen, indicating he noticed this silent, cold exchange.

"We have suffered at each other's hands," Tyrion continues. "We have lost people we love at each other's hands. If all we wanted was more of the same, there would be no need for this gathering. We are entirely capable of waging war against each other without meeting face-to-face."

"So instead, we should settle our differences and live together in harmony for the rest of our days?" Cersei demands, her voice biting.

Tyrion grimaces. "We all know that will never happen."

"Then, why are we here?"

Jon, his face set, gets to his feet. All eyes swivel to him as he crosses to stand near Tyrion, looking out of place under the weight of his furs. "This isn't about living in harmony. It's just about living. The same thing is coming for all of us. A general you can't negotiate with. An army that doesn't leave corpses behind on the battlefield. Lord Tyrion tells me a million people live in this city. They're about to become a million more soldiers in the Army of the Dead."

Cersei smirks. "I imagine for most of them, it would be an improvement."

Jon's face hardens. Ignoring the flinching from the Lannister soldiers, he steps closer to her chair — Rose knows that look and catches her breath; for the briefest of seconds, he is properly, properly angry. "This is serious," he growls. "I wouldn't be here if it weren't."

Cersei remains unfazed. "I don't think it's serious at all. I think it's another bad joke." Her eyes dart to Daenerys, and she stiffens again. "If my brother Jaime has informed me correctly, you're asking me for a truce."

"Yes," Daenerys replies. "That's all."

A dark smile twists up Cersei's lips. "That's all?" she repeats, leaning forward in her chair, her hands clenched around the arms. "Pull back my armies and stand down while you go on your monster hunt. Or, while you solidify and expand your position. Hard for me to know which it is with my armies pulled back . . . until you return and march on _my_ capital with four times the men."

"Your capital will be safe until the northern threat is dealt with," Daenerys promises, remaining composed. Rose flinches, as the words echo what she had told her on the battlements at Eastwatch. "You have my word."

Cersei's teeth grit. "The word of a would-be usurper."

"There is no conversation that will erase the last 50 years," Tyrion pipes up, cutting through the tension like a knife. His doe eyes, warm and imploring, bear into his sister's. "We have something to show you."

Footsteps make Rose's head turn. The Hound re-emerges, this time straining with the weight of the crate on his back, which is supported with tightly wound ropes. His teeth clench together with the effort of lugging it towards the podium, up the slender steps, and stopping in the middle. Crouching, he sets it down behind him with a clumsy thud.

The Hound straightens up, the gathering watching in silence as he removes the ropes, chains, and padlocks binding it shut. Rose glances at Cersei to try and gauge her reaction — she frowns, half-impatient, half-irritated as the seconds tick by.

Finally, the Hound pushes the lid to the ground and staggers to the side, warily. Nothing happens. Frowning, the Hound clutches his sword. People crane their necks to try and see over the rim of the crate, but whatever is in there, isn't stirring. Cersei tilts her head, exasperated. Rose hums in distress, her eyes locking with Jon's. _It'll all be for nothing if it doesn't move. All of this will be a huge waste of—_

With a sigh, the Hound slams his foot into the crate, knocking it onto its side. The wight lets out a squawk and topples out, the entire procession flinching and gasping in their seats. Snarling and gnashing, it bolts straight for Cersei, who recoils in her chair.

The Mountain steps forward, drawing his sword, but the Hound gets there first. The wight is jerked backwards, falling to the ground. Behind him, the Hound holds the chain fastened to the wight's collar. It writhes on the ground, spitting and hissing. Jaime and the Mountain surround it, their swords in hand.

The wight lurches to its feet and charges at the Hound. He draws his sword and swings it across its waist, slicing it in half. The two parts of the wight crash to the ground, both still jerking and writhing. Rose looks to Cersei; for the first time, there is genuine fear on her face, and Jaime's, who stands in front of her, his hand on his sword.

The wight's torso crawls closer to the Hound, screeching, its shattered teeth gnashing. With a grunt, the Hound slashes his sword, and it cuts through the wight's arm, which falls a distance away. Again, it doesn't let up, the arm flexing and grasping at the air.

She doesn't see Qyburn rising to his feet. But, she frowns when he crosses the podium towards the creature, no hint of fear on his withered face. Instead, he leans down and picks up the hand. His head tilts as he studies it, fascinated.

Rose rises to her feet. Davos does the same and crosses over to Jon, who takes the squirming, decapitated hand from Qyburn. Davos lights a flint, the flames roaring, and hands it to him.

"We can destroy them by burning them," Jon announces, lighting the hand on fire. The wight lets out a shriek in response, and Jon drops the blazing hand on the floor. "And, we can destroy them with dragonglass."

He glances at Rose, his face solemn. Sucking in a breath, she draws out the fashioned dragonglass dagger on her belt, which had taken the place of Robb's gift. "If we don't win this fight, then _that_ is the fate of every person in the world," Jon declares, points to the wight's torso as his sister circles towards it.

He gives Rose a nod. Bracing herself, Rose leans down and grabs the wight by its remaining wrist, hoisting it upwards. With all her might, she plunges the dragonglass dagger into where she assumes it's heart once was. It lets out another loud screech, then crumbles to the floor, lifeless.

Rose lets it go. She looks up, swallowing when she sees all eyes fixated on her and the creature at her feet. Her eyes meet Cersei's. With a pointed grimace, she sheathes her dagger and crosses back over to her seat.

Jon steps closer to Cersei, his face imploring. She stares back at him, her face unreadable. "There is only one war that matters. The Great War. And, it is here."

Daenerys nods. "I didn't believe it until I saw them. I saw them all."

Cersei blinks, remaining silent and in thought.

"How many?" Jaime asks, quietly.

"A hundred thousand, at least."

Euron, who has been rooted to his seat since the wight had crawled out of the crate, finally stands up. He no longer has a sneer on his face. Gingerly, he walks over to the bones of the lifeless creature and crouches down next to it. His hand brushes over its head and recoils instantly. "Can they swim?"

"No," Jon replies.

"Good." Euron straightens to his feet and turns to face Cersei. "I'm taking the Iron Fleet back to the Iron Islands," he announces.

Cersei's eyes narrow. "What are you talking about?"

"I've been around the world," Euron murmurs. "I've seen everything, things you couldn't imagine, and _this_ ," he falters, glancing back over his shoulder at the fallen creature, "this is the only thing I've ever seen that terrifies me."

Rose frowns. "I've spent my share of time with the Ironborn," she pipes up and heads swivel to face her. She ignores the lot of them, suspicious as she studies Euron. "They believe your lands are named for the fierce, unbending traditions of the Old Way. You pride yourselves on warfare. Running isn't in your nature."

The sneer returns to Euron's face. He saunters closer to her. "Tell that to your lover over there," he snarls, gesturing to where Theon is now on his feet, swallowing. "He tucked tail and ran from his sister's fleet like he was born to it." His dirty eyes trail over Rose, and he leans closer. "Shouldn't waste your pretty cunt on a coward like that."

The words feel like a punch to the gut. Jon steps towards him, but Brienne gets there first, striding to Rose's side and drawing her sword. Euron eyes her, and chuckles, darkly. Giving Rose a wink that makes her skin crawl, he heads over to Daenerys instead.

"I'm going back to my island," he tells her, ignoring the flinching from the Dothraki soldiers at her back. "You should go back to yours. When winter's over, we'll be the only ones left alive."

With that, he turns on his heel and heads for the steps. Rose watches him leave, then looks to Theon. He doesn't look back at her, instead, his eyes fixated on his uncle as he walks away. He looks so defeated, Rose feels herself trembling with rage.

"He's right to be afraid," Cersei mutters.

"But, a coward to run," Rose counters, harsher than she intended. Her head whips around to meet Cersei's gaze, the anger boiling through her veins. "A fool to think he can wait out this war," she adds, pointedly.

Cersei stares back at her. The two queens share a long, thoughtful look that has the entire coliseum holding its breath. When was the last time Rose had seen her? At her son's wedding. She had cradled his head in her lap as the life left his body, as he choked and spluttered, clawing at his neck. The memory still makes Rose smile to this day.

But, then she remembers the last conversation they had. How she had told her that her mother and brother were dead. Rose resists the urge to bite her lip. How far they had both come since losing the ones they loved most.

"I agree," Cersei replies, eventually. Her gaze darts over the gathering. "If those things come for us, there will be no kingdoms to rule. Everything we suffered will have been for nothing. Everything we lost will have been for nothing." Her lips purse as she looks at Daenerys. "The Crown accepts your truce. Until the dead are defeated, they are the true enemy."

Rose exhales. It seems the entire procession lets out a breath of relief.

"In return, the King and the Queen in the North will extend this truce," Cersei adds. Rose's smile falls as her gleaming green eyes flit between her and her brother. "They will remain in the North where they belong. They will not take up arms against the Lannisters. They will not choose sides."

"Just the Northern rulers?" Daenerys asks. "Not me?"

Cersei scoffs. "I would never ask it of you," she hisses. "You would never agree to it. And if you did, I would trust you even less than I do now." She looks between Jon and Rose, contemplative. "I ask it only of Ned Stark's children. I know Ned Stark's children will be true to their word."

All eyes swivel between the King and Queen in the North. Rose feels heat rising to her cheeks under their gazes. From where he stands, in the middle of the podium, Jon looks to her. The two siblings share a long, loaded look, as though waiting for the other to speak. Rose knows the right answer. It's on the tip of her tongue. And her jaw sets when she sees Jon make the decision in his eyes. It sends her heart plummeting to her stomach.

He turns back to a waiting Cersei. "I am true to my word. Or, I try to be." He pauses. Rose opens her mouth, prepared to stop him, but again, he beats her to it. "That is why I cannot give you what you ask. I cannot serve two queens. And, I have already pledged myself to Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen."

The gathering shifts, the movement rustling in the wind. Rose leans back in her seat, incredulous. Across the podium, Daenerys's lips part in shock, her brow creasing. _He risked everything_ , Rose fumes, silently. _He risked everything, and again, he doesn't consult me._

"You are not the only one who speaks for the North," Cersei whispers.

When Rose looks up again, all heads have turned in her direction. Momentarily, she is at a loss for words. Her mouth opens and closes. Cersei's gleaming eyes penetrate hers, challenging, furious.

Jon swallows. "My sister is—"

"Your Queen," Cersei finishes. "Your word does not stand above hers. I want to hear what she has to say." Again, she fixes her glare on Rose.

Rose takes a deep, trembling breath. Her brother stares at her, his face pained and pleading. The anger inside of her withers away, the longer the silence goes on. Still, she doesn't trust herself to speak.

Yet, she knows what Cersei is doing. She wants their enmity. She wants them to turn against one another. To start a civil war amongst themselves — another thing that is not in Rose's capability. The thought slams straight into her.

 _I am not capable of hurting my brother._

Her throat constricts, but she swallows back the pain. "The North loves my brother," she begins, keeping her voice stable, forcing herself to look, directly at Cersei. "Almost as much as I do. They respect him because he makes tough choices that represent their interests. I trust that he's making the right decision now."

With this, Rose fixes Jon with a hard, pointed look, and he exhales in relief. He holds her gaze, saying 'thank you' with everything but his words. It breaks her heart all over again. _But, you still betrayed me. And I couldn't betray you._ For a split second, she has to force herself not to burst into desperate tears. He sees this.

"Then, there is nothing left to discuss." Cersei rises to her feet, and her small procession joins her. "The dead will come north first. Enjoy dealing with them. We will deal with whatever is left of you."

Jon opens his mouth to protest, but she sweeps past him. The Lannister procession follows after her, Jaime included, heading for the steps. Rose's eyes drift shut. When she opens them, Brienne has rushed past her, following after Jaime with a frantic plea she cannot hear.

Rose pushes herself to her feet, feeling the strong urge to punch something as the Lannister forces march down the dirt road.

"I wish you hadn't done that," Davos murmurs.

Daenerys gets to her feet and marches straight to Jon's side. "I'm grateful for your loyalty," she says, her voice trembling. Anguished tears spring to her eyes. "But, my dragon died so that we could be here. If it's all for nothing, then he died for nothing."

"I know," Jon sighs, frustrated.

"I'm pleased you bent the knee to our queen," comes Tyrion's strained voice. "I would have advised it, had you asked." He whips around, a dark frown on his face. "But have you ever considered learning how to lie every now and then? Just a bit?"

Jon swivels around. "I'm not going to swear an oath I can't uphold."

"You had no trouble doing it before," Rose snaps before she can stop herself.

He flinches and turns to face her. "Rose—"

She sighs, her anger ebbing. "I admire honour," she interrupts, closing the distance between them. "I always have. But, if you put too much value in it, it will prevent us from doing what needs to be done to win this war. The North will suffer because of it."

"Everything I've done is to ensure that doesn't happen," Jon insists. "I'm not going to lie to Cersei just to appease her. And I won't play her game on her terms." She gives him a frown that makes him sigh, irritated, and turns to scowl at the rest of the procession. "Talk about my father if you want, tell me that's the attitude that got him killed. But when enough people make false promises, words stop meaning anything. Then, there are no more answers, only better and better lies. And lies won't help us in this fight."

"That is indeed a problem," Tyrion muses, still rigid. "The more immediate problem is that we're fucked."

"Any ideas as to how we might change that state of affairs?" Davos asks.

Tyrion gazes out at the dirt road, contemplative. "Only one," he murmurs, sounding grim. When he turns back to face them, his brow is knitted together. "Everyone stays here, and I go and talk to my sister."

Daenerys steps forward, her fists clenched at her sides. "I didn't come all this way to have my Hand murdered," she snarls.

"I don't want Cersei to murder me either," Tyrion insists, looking at her with such gentleness, it sends Rose's heart racing in her chest. "I could have stayed in my cell and saved a great deal of trouble."

"I did this," Jon calls. "I should go."

Tyrion frowns. "She'll definitely murder you."

Rose rolls her eyes. "My brother is an expert at evading death," she points out, exasperated. "Cersei hates you far more than she hates us."

"She still believes you had a hand in murdering her son," Tyrion counters, raising his voice, making her wince. "Imagine how she'll repay the favour, should you confront her with Jon at your side." His face softens when Rose sucks in a tense breath, sharing a glance with her brother. His words had clearly struck a deep nerve. Calming himself, he looks to his Queen. "I go see my sister alone. Or, we all go home and we're right back where we started."

Daenerys stares at him a long moment, as though she can silently change his mind. When she realises she can't, her head drops to a nod, wringing her hands in front of her. Tyrion returns this. His eyes dart around the gathering, searching their faces. Then, he turns on his heel and follows the Lannister procession down the road.

* * *

An hour passes. The heat of the sun becomes almost unbearable, blended with the tension lingering in the air. Rose remains on the podium, her hand brushing the hilt of her sword, watching Jon and Daenerys from afar. They stand in the doorway of one of the stone entrances, conversing. The sight of them, talking, laughing and smiling at one another, sends a flood of pain to her chest.

She hears footsteps and the gentle clank of armour. Turning, she cannot help but beam, her insides warming when Theon approaches her side. He smiles back down at her, but it dims, quickly. "I'm sorry for what Euron said to you," he murmurs, averting his gaze to the floor.

Rose shakes her head. "He didn't say anything true."

Theon's eyes flicker upwards to meet hers again. A warm, handsome smile breaks out across his face — she decides it is one of her favourite sights in the whole world.

A sudden thought strikes her, and it furrows her brow together. "Varys told me Euron made an offer of marriage to Cersei," she murmurs. "That she was going to accept, should the rest of us be defeated." Her frown deepens. "Doesn't seem likely he'd give all that up because he was afraid."

Theon swallows. "He has a right to be." He looks over his shoulder at the fallen crate and the remnants of the wight next to it. When he turns back to her, he has a lopsided grin on his face. "You fought an army of that."

Rose arches an eyebrow, coyly. "Yes."

"And, you survived," he finishes.

She lifts her shoulder in a half-shrug, squinting in the sunlight to gauge his reaction. He chuckles as he studies her, and an uncontrollable smile twists up her lips.

He has that look on his face — like it is taking everything in his power not to grab and kiss her. Rose feels that same, familiar desire bubbling up inside of her. It would help if his chest didn't look so broadened in his armour.

Quickly, she averts her gaze and stares out at Jon and Daenerys, who remain huddled in the darkness of the entrance. Theon follows her eyeline, and his laughter vanishes. Rose sighs, sadly. "He's falling in love with her."

"You know he's only trying to do the right thing."

"The right thing would've been to consult me before he bent the knee."

She sighs, biting down on her lower lip. At this, he moves instinctively closer to her, and she drops her watery gaze to the ground. It takes Rose a second to realise he is shielding her from the gazes of the remaining procession in case she abruptly explodes into tears. Her heart warms at the gesture.

"When all this is done, we have to go back to Winterfell, to all those lords who put their trust in us to lead them," she whispers, brokenly. "With a southern ruler at our backs." She scoffs, angrily, glancing at Jon again. "He broke a promise to me and he hasn't even apologised for it."

Theon sighs, putting a hand on her shoulder. "I don't doubt your strength, you know that," he begins, his eyes penetrating hers. "But without Daenerys and her dragons, you wouldn't be standing here. She put her life on the line to save you. The North needs her. Her dragons and her armies. You got what you came for."

Rose gazes back at him. "We came to secure her assistance. We'd done that, and he still bent the knee." She grits her teeth together, arching an eyebrow. "As I said, he's falling in love with her."

His hand drops from her shoulder, his jaw clenching as he swallows. Whatever response he had in mind vanishes at the sound of someone crossing the dirt road. Both of their heads whip around to see Tyrion, drained and exhausted, walking towards the steps.

Rose takes a few, eager steps forward. Jon and Daenerys emerge from their quiet place, rushing up to the podium. The world stands still as they stare at Tyrion, waiting for an answer.

And the answer comes marching up the road behind him. Rose's palms sweat at her side as the Lannister forces reappear, along with Jaime, the Mountain, Qyburn, and Cersei. She has the same reserved look on her face, but something about the clench of her jaw suggests she is swallowing back her pride.

Jon steps forward, reaching Rose's side at the front of the procession. Her heart pounds the closer the Lannisters march until they are climbing up the slender steps towards them. Cersei comes to a slow halt, and the rest of them do, too.

She glances at Tyrion before speaking. "My armies will not stand down," she announces. "I will not pull them back to the capital." A long pause makes Rose gulp, but she remains still, waiting. "I will march them north, to fight alongside you in the Great War. The darkness is coming for us all. We will face it together."

Tyrion grins from the sidelines. Rose hears Jon blowing out a puff of air in relief, but something keeps her from doing the same. She eyes Cersei, watching the words falling from her lips, but cannot understand why they sound so bizarre.

"And when the Great War is over, perhaps you will remember I chose to help with no promises or assurances from any of you," Cersei finishes, turning cold, again. "I expect not. Call our banners," she orders, glancing to her flank. "All of them."

Rose purses her lips. She remains rooted to the spot, unable to wipe the frown from her face. Cersei's eyes glint as they lock with hers. It's as if she knows. It's as if she can read her thoughts.

 _She's lying through her damn teeth._

* * *

"What would Cersei have to gain from deceiving us?"

"Daenerys has already committed herself to the Northern cause," Rose explains, struggling to keep calm. "Our forces will be stationed in Winterfell to hold back the Army of the Dead while Cersei expands her position in the south. She'll wait until we're occupied with the Great War before retaking lands under our command. Storms End, Riverrun—"

"She saw what's coming for us," Jon interrupts.

"And, it's coming for the North first." Rose puts her hands on the desk in front of her as the boat rocks them, waves crashing against the window behind Jon's seat. He continues to frown at her, confused. "There's a fair chance her foes will wipe one another out. One of us is going to win. The North, or the Night King. But, that someone will be weakened from the war to come."

Jon blinks. "You fought them, Rose. They don't weaken. They don't _stop_."

"And, if they win, Cersei will have had plenty of time to hold them off at the Neck," Rose concludes, her fists clenched on top of the table. "If not, she could leave Westeros behind and carve out a whole new kingdom for herself. She'll certainly have the army for it." She bites down on her lip, watching Jon shake his head, unconvinced. "You know I'm right," she half-pleads.

He sighs and runs a hand over his face. "I _don't_ know," he confesses. His tired eyes drift shut for a second. "I don't know what to believe anymore."

Rose's heart does a jump in her chest. "It certainly isn't me," she mutters, straightening up and sniffing, indignant. "You've made that very clear." The weight of her own words comes crashing down on top of her. _My own brother._

Jon gazes up at her. Those warm, brown eyes. She refuses to meet them, knowing it will crush her again. He opens his mouth, but a knock at the cabin door silences him. Davos pokes his head around. "Pardon, My Lady." He outstretches his hand. "A raven for you."

Rose casts Jon one last, glum look, then takes the scroll. Davos glances between the siblings and, sensing the mood, backs out of the room. She waits for him to leave before opening it, her thumb brushing against the direwolf in the wax. Sansa's neat handwriting comes into view.

Jon rises to his feet, watching her read. He frowns when her hands begin to tremble as she clutches the scroll, tighter with her fingers. Her mouth parts and she sinks backwards into her chair, eyes sparkling. "What is it?" he asks.

Rose says nothing for a long while. Her eyes remain fixated on the scroll, and whatever she reads has startled her into silence. Then, resolve sets her face, and she takes a deep, bracing breath. "I need to be alone," she whispers, not looking up. She blinks, forcing back the tears.

He decides not to push. Instead, Jon circles the desk and walks straight past her, heading for the door. Rose hears it shut and instantly spurs into action. She gets up and walks over to take his place behind the desk, setting the scroll down onto the table.

A surge of different emotions flood through her; rage, frustration, anguish, self-loathing. For a long while, she sits, not moving a muscle. Just staring down at the words on the paper as her mind reels. As much as she despises herself for it, tears begin to spill down her cheeks, dripping onto her lap. She wipes at them, sucking in a calming breath.

Her hand feels numb as it reaches out and grabs a quill. Then, glancing at the door to make sure no one is looking in, she whips out a fresh piece of parchment and, hating herself, signs a sentence for immediate arrest.

* * *

Jon's finger runs along the map in the Chamber of the Painted Table, deep in thought. "If we have the Dothraki ride on the Kingsroad, they'll arrive at Winterfell within a fortnight," he says.

"And the Unsullied?" Daenerys asks.

Jon points again. "We can sail with them to White Harbour and meet the Dothraki here on the Kingsroad, then ride together to Winterfell," he explains.

"Perhaps you should fly to Winterfell, Your Grace," Jorah suggests. His face is creased in concern. Daenerys looks to him, thinking. "You have many enemies in the North. Thousands fell fighting your father. All it takes is one angry man with a crossbow — he'll see your silver hair on the Kingsroad and know that one well-placed bolt will make him a hero. The Man Who Killed the Conqueror."

Rose finds herself nodding in silent agreement. Daenerys says nothing, still in thought.

"It's your decision, Your Grace," Jon insists. "But if we're going to be allies in this war, it's important for the Northerners to see us as allies. If we sail to White Harbour together, I think it sends a better message."

The room waits in a silence that is oddly tense, as Jorah and Jon exchange a long, loaded look. "I've not come to conquer the North," Daenerys says, eventually. Her eyes dart, pointedly across the room, and land on Rose, her chin lifted. "I'm coming to save the North."

Rose grits her teeth. The delusion in her words is enough to make her want to scream, feeling the anger coiling in her stomach. Instead, she glares back at her, venom glinting in her eyes.

Unfazed, Daenerys looks to Jon. "We sail together."

Jon nods, struggling not to smile. Rose watches the long, silent exchange between them, as they both try to keep the glee from their faces. Across she room, she catches eyes with Theon. Knowing she is about to explode, she turns on her heel and heads for the door, leaving an uncomfortable silence in her wake.

* * *

Theon marches from the throne room, up the winding staircases to her chambers. He doesn't bother knocking. Fuelled from his conversation with Jon, he bursts in to find her standing next to her bed, folding her clothes into a case. She looks up with a tired smile at his entrance. "As much as I love the sea, spending weeks trapped on a boat with Jon making doe eyes at the Dragon Queen isn't exactly what I—"

He crosses to her in three large strides, grabs her face in his hands and crashes his lips into hers. Rose gasps into his mouth, taken aback. But then, a part of her understanding, she rests her hands on his hips and draws him closer to her. She can hear the blood tremoring in her ears, her heart thumping against her chest.

His mouth softens against hers. When he pulls away and gazes down at her, she's surprised to see tears brimming over in his eyes. One by one, they slide down his cheeks. A lump forms in Rose's throat — she knows what he is going to say. And, she's not prepared to hear it. "Theon, I—"

"I love you," he murmurs. He sighs, like the three words have been forcing him to hold his breath for a long time. "I have always loved you." Rose's face crumples, and he reaches up to brush the strands of hair from it. "I should have told you before Ned took you to King's Landing. Before Robb sent me to Castle Black, or after we rescued you from Winterfell. But, I didn't because . . ."

Theon's breath hitches, and he hangs his head, shaking it. Rose waits, feeling as though her chest is about to burst with the surge of anguish and euphoria. She lifts a hand to cradle his face, tilting his chin up to look at her.

"I'm a coward," he finishes, quietly. "Because nothing, not Euron, or Cersei, or whatever is marching beyond the Wall to slaughter us . . ." another sharp breath cuts him off. He puts both of his hands on her cheeks, his thumbs grazing the soft skin there, ". . . none of it scares me as much as my feelings for you." He sniffs, grimacing. "I'm sorry."

Rose blinks. "What are you sorry for?" she whispers, her voice trembling.

Theon averts his gaze. "It's selfish. You deserve better."

Rose is shaking her head before the words have even left his lips. She reaches up and puts her hands on his shoulders, the vision of him blurring against her tears. "There is nothing better than the feeling of being in love with you," she croaks. "And there is nothing worse than the thought of losing you . . . after everything that's happened to us." A sob tears through her.

Theon's arms circle her waist, drawing her closer. Their heads tip together as she tries to regain control of herself, her hands clenching his leather tunic. They stand together, her wrapped up in his arms, for a long while, neither one of them saying anything.

Finally, Theon pulls his head up. "Jon's right," he murmurs, in a steadier voice. "My father, my real father, lost his head at King's Landing." His hands rub up and down her arms. "I won't choose. I'm going to save Yara. Together, we'll take back the Iron Islands. Then, if I'm not too late, I'll sail north to fight for Winterfell." A frown creases Rose's brow. He matches it in confusion. "What is it?"

Rose bites down on her lip. His thumb reaches up and tugs it from between her teeth, his eyes twinkling at her stubborn habit. "I just really wish I was going with you," she confesses, sounding surprised at herself. She flinches at the selfish thought.

Theon peers at her, then his face breaks out in a smile and he tugs her to his chest. "Me too," he sighs. His chin rests on top of her head, and her arms encircle his waist, listening to the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear.

* * *

"You stand accused of murder. You stand accused of treason. How do you answer these charges . . ." Sansa's eyeline shifts as she finishes, in her soft, patient voice, ". . . Lord Baelish?"

From where he stands, hidden in the corner of the room, Littlefinger blinks as though someone has just slapped him across the face. A smug smile breaks out across Arya's face. All heads in the room swivel to him, Sansa's eyes penetrating as she awaits his answer. Littlefinger's eyes, wide and startled, shift from her to the Northern lords gathered. For a painful minute, he cannot speak.

"My sister asked you a question," Arya says, an edge to her voice.

Littlefinger glances at her, and her complacent smirk. Stepping forward from the wall he leans against, he struggles to compose himself. "Lady Sansa, forgive me . . . I'm a bit confused."

Sansa frowns. "Which charges confuse you?" she asks. "Let's start with the simplest one. You murdered our aunt, Lysa Arryn. You pushed her through the Moon Door and watched her fall. Do you deny it?"

Littlefinger glances to Lord Royce who stands on the opposite side of the hall, glaring at him, coldly. He pauses, then turns back to Sansa. "I did it to protect you—"

"You did it to take power in the Vale," Sansa interrupts. "Earlier, you conspired to murder Jon Arryn. You gave Lysa Tears of Lys to poison him. Do you deny it?"

Littlefinger stares at her. His cheeks are starting to redden, sweat gleaming on his brow. Cautiously, he steps into the centre of the room, standing before the high table. "Whatever your aunt might have told you . . . she was a troubled woman. She imagined enemies everywhere." As he speaks, his eyes search the faces of the gathered lords, trying to find one that doesn't glare back at him in disgust.

"You had Aunt Lysa send a letter to our parents, telling them it was the Lannisters who murdered Jon Arryn, when really it was you," Sansa continues, ignoring him. "The conflict between the Starks and the Lannisters, it was _you_ who started it. Do you deny it?"

Littlefinger shakes his head, stricken. "I know of no such letter."

"You conspired with Cersei Lannister and Joffrey Baratheon to betray our father, Ned Stark. Thanks to your treachery, he was imprisoned and later executed on false charges of treason." Sansa leans forward in her seat, teeth gritted. " _Do you deny it_?"

"I deny it," Littlefinger insists. He looks, wildly around him, at the steaming procession. "None of you were there to see what happened. None of you knows the truth—"

"You held a knife to his throat," Bran calls. Littlefinger freezes. He pivots on the spot he's rooted to, to see the boy staring back at him with a patient coldness that sends a shudder down his spine. "You said, 'I did warn you not to trust me'."

Arya draws the Valyrian steel dagger on her hip, the sharp scraping sound making him turn. "You told our mother this knife belonged to Tyrion Lannister." Her beautiful doe eyes gleam in a frightening way. "But that was another one of your lies. It was yours."

Littlefinger swallows at the steel glint. He crosses the room in three, large strides and puts his hands on the high table. "Lady Sansa," he whispers, urgently. "I have known you since you were a girl. I've protected you—"

"Protected me?" Sansa spits. "By selling me to the Boltons?"

"If we could speak alone . . . I can explain everything."

Sansa leans back in her seat, composed. "Sometimes, when I'm trying to understand a person's motives, I play a little game," she muses, and his eyes drift shut, anguished. "I assume the worst. What's the worst reason you have for turning me against my sister? But that's what you do, isn't it? That's what you've always done. Turned family against family, turned sister against sister. That's what you did to our mother and Aunt Lysa, and that's what you tried to do to us."

Littlefinger straightens up, watching from the corner of his eye as Arya steps forward, standing deliberately in his eyeline. Her hand is closed around the hilt of the dagger. "Sansa, please—"

"I'm a slow learner," she admits. "It's true. But, I learn."

"Give me a chance to defend myself," he pleads. "I deserve that."

Sansa stares back at him. Slowly, she rises to her feet so her face is levelled with his. "When you brought me back to Winterfell, you told me there's no justice in the world. Not unless we make it." Her eyeline shifts again, this time looking to the waiting knights and lords, who watch the scene unfold with grim satisfaction. "A few days ago, I sent word to the Queen in the North. She has ordered the immediate incarceration of Petyr Baelish, Lord Protector of the Vale and Lord of Harrenhal, to be detained here at Winterfell."

As the words leave her mouth, knights instantly begin moving towards Littlefinger, who stares back at her with shining eyes. Sansa gazes back, her lips twitching into a half-smile. "In the name of your Queen, in the name of my _sister_ , whom he has betrayed, defiled, and conspired against, I call upon you to seize him," she orders, smoothly. "To take him to the dungeons to await her justice."

Swords scrape against sheathes as the gathered knights draw them, pointing their blades at Littlefinger. He staggers backwards, stricken as they glint in the torchlight. One last time, he looks to Sansa for mercy but finds none there. He finds nothing of the helpless girl he saved from King's Landing all those years ago.

* * *

Rose stands at the stern of the ship. She can hear the wind whistling in her ears, feel the rock of the waves beneath her feet. Her hands rest on the wooden barrier as, across the waters, the Ironborn ship vanishes in the horizon, the kraken sigil blurring in the distance. A powerful ache fills her chest knowing that the man she adores is on that ship. Knowing there is a good chance she will never see him again.

Steeling herself, Rose glances upwards at the sky bleeding into a sunset and crosses over the deck. Around her, men prepare for the rough journey ahead, shouting orders at one another, dragging crates of dragonglass and other supplies. She passes them with a small smile, stopping at the bow of the ship. Watching the beautiful waters move beneath them.

Sailing her home.

* * *

 **A/N:** Rose is going home! And Season Seven is done. I can't believe there's only one season left. This story has been so much fun to write, and I've never become so invested in a character's growth before. Rose is, by far, one of my favourite personal creations.

Littlefinger's ending has altered slightly. Rest assured, he will be suffering plenty for all his crimes. Perhaps his death won't be so swift as the flick of a dagger . . . we'll see. It just feels right, after all he has done to Rose, after how badly he's treated her, that we see her confronting him for his crimes against her family.

Rose is at odds with Daenerys, and now Jon, too. Tensions will be reaching a boiling point next season. And plenty of exchanges between Rose and the other characters. For me, it isn't just about saying goodbye to her, but also to the relationships she has built.

Thank you to all who have stuck by this story for the past few months. I look forward to taking you into the final season! It will be uploaded at the start of August.


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